Gold in Trib 1

  ISBN 1-888125-11-X

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 96-71689

  Copyright 1997 by Douglas Anderson

  —First Edition—

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical or electronic means including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in whole or in part in any form, and in any case not without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Manufactured in the United States of America.

  Gold in Trib 1 is dedicated to

  my good friend Hagen Gauss.

  Without Hagen’s lust for

  wilderness adventures I would

  never have experienced the

  hiking, flying and gold prospecting

  adventures described.

  He provided inspiration and goaded me

  on at times when I would have given up.

  Table Of

  Contents

  Foreword

  Ladue Area Map

  Introduction

  1The Plan

  2Hatcher Pass

  3Practice Air Drop

  4Powerline Trail

  5Polka Night

  6Flight to Gulkana

  7Air Drop

  8Return to Anchorage

  9The Drive

  10Up to the Ridge

  11Day One on the Trail

  12Wet Saturday

  13Trib 1 at Last

  14Trib 2

  15Glory Hole

  16A Day of Panning

  17One Mean Wet Hike

  18Last Day of Hiking

  19Hagen’s Winter Trip

  20Working Gold Claim

  21Day of Relaxation

  22Last Few Days

  23Back to Civilization

  Beginning

  Foreword

  I wanted the gold and I got it,

  Came out with a fortune last fall,

  Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it,

  And somehow the gold isn’t all.

  Spell of the Yukon—Robert Service

  Reading Gold on Trib 1 reminded me of those adventuresome years spent with my good friend, Doug, searching for gold. It seemed easier then to take risks and choose between a “do and dare” adventure on one hand, and “conformity and a secure pay check” on the other.

  Everyone hopes there will be a pot of gold at rainbow’s end, and likewise, great wealth at the end of a prospecting adventure—a Glory Hole. For some, it turns out that way.

  Other than color in the pan, or a nugget or two in the poke, what is there for reflection? Our efforts were great and investment substantial, but we do not balance pleasure against despair, gains against losses. Instead, I look back with a sense of pride on a journey taken, hardships endured, and an occasional success over the devil in my soul.

  What is life if not a journey, a taking of risks, and occasional successes? For the faint hearted, a journey not taken is but a life not lived.

  Gold in Trib 1, is a fitting tribute to our journey, a reminder of our lives not frittered away, even though sometimes it seemed to be so. A host of memories are a lasting reward more valuable than the gold we discovered. Hagen Gauss

  Doug (on left) and Hagen on the trail at Squirrel Peak.

  Preface

  Introduction

  Having made Alaska my home for ten years, I often thought I had enough material to write a book. Initially, I hand wrote sections of the manuscript, over a two year period, while traveling as a company representative. Long airplane flights and many lonely nights in motels in strange places were eased because I became engrossed in my manuscript. Indeed, there were times when I was reliving those events which really happened: I was flying in my plane, hiking those high mountain ridges, or panning for gold. It seemed at times that I could not write fast enough, there was just so much material to work with, so many ideas spilling forth. I thought that writing would be great therapy and would help to relieve my desperate feelings of home sickness for Alaska. It did not—though writing served to pass the time—I was even more homesick, but I derived much pleasure from penning the tale.

  Gold in Trib 1 is an account of the exploits of myself and a very good friend, and, in particular, of our adventures while prospecting for gold. It is a factual account where possible and where not factual, is the way we would have liked it.

  To make the book more appealing to readers I had, of necessity, cause to adjust some chronology and to take license with regard to some details which might otherwise have been boring. As a result, it is my fervent hope that readers enjoy the book for what it is, and will not take it so seriously as to dash off to the subject area with expectations of finding their fortune, though I know from experience they would find it a very challenging wilderness hike. Naturally there is still much gold in Alaska, but I fear I may have made discovering the Glory Hole, wherever it may be, sound somewhat easier and more financially rewarding than it really was.

  Chapter 1

  The Plan

  My red and white Cessna 150, throttled back to a soft burbling seventeen hundred rpms, and with carb heat selected, was in a gentle left turn. Wasilla’s landing strip was in sight under my left wing tip.

  “No reported traffic,” the helpful attendant at the Palmer Airport Regional Flight Service Station (FSS) reported through the 150’s radio receiver. I knew he didn’t mean there wasn’t any traffic. It just meant he wasn’t aware of any from his location, ten miles away in Palmer. Wasilla’s airport is not strictly controlled and pilots are not obligated to use a radio at all.

  In my six years of flying in Alaska, I had always tried to fly my little plane as professionally as possible, though I held only a private pilot license. The Cessna 150 was equipped with a radio and a VOR as aids to navigation and I used them as much as practical, given the circumstances.

  Customarily, I contacted the FSS at Palmer to state my intention of landing at Wasilla and the attendant responded with a report of the situation as he knew it. From then on, I relied on my own eyes to make sure there really wasn’t any traffic in the area.

  I flew over the airport at fifteen hundred feet and looked for air traffic. Seeing none, I circled, slipped into the downwind leg, parallel to the runway, dropped one notch of flaps, and turned gently onto base leg at five hundred feet. Leveling the wings, I took another good look around. There were no aircraft in sight except those parked by the service station and cafe at the west end of the airport. Wasilla hasn’t any fancy aids of larger airports: approach indicator lights and the like, so all approaches and landings are simply by pilot judgment. I called Palmer FSS again and advised them I was going ahead with my approach and landing to the west.

  The wind sock at the service station suggested a light wind from the southwest, so I would have to cope with a quartering crosswind during the landing. Nudging the electric flap control lever down one more notch, I turned the plane onto final approach in line with the runway. I dropped the flaps further, slowed the aircraft to about fifty eight miles per hour, and trimmed the engine speed and controls to maintain a gradual descent. The plane crabbed sideways due to the crosswind, but was still on a course exactly in line with the runway.

  Tops of silver birch trees, tipped with fresh green leaves, slid by under the 150’s wings. A gravel road and chain link boundary fence came into view, and then the threshold of the runway. Applying a steady back pressure to the yoke, I eased the throttle back and the aircraft touched down with a cautioning squawk from the stall warning indicator. There was a noisy rumble as the main gear contacted the runway and loose gravel rattled off the underside of the fuselage. I maintained steady back pressure on the control yoke to keep the nose wheel out of ruts and to protect the
propeller from gravel rash. With my right hand, I flipped up the electric flap switch and switched off carb heat and the landing lights.

  The last thirty seconds had been busy as I made the final approach and landing. Now I had time to glance to the right toward my friend Hagen’s house, my destination for the weekend.

  Hagen’s house, part single level, part two level, stood on a gentle rise north of the airport boundary. It was a pilot’s dream house. A plane could taxi from the runway, cross the gravel road, and park on a level area by the house. Last year we buried three attachment anchors for aircraft tiedown ropes. Hagen’s was not the only residence on this side of the runway, and several neighbors had aircraft on their property. One recently completed a large hanger.

  Not seeing aircraft on final approach, I turned the 150 around and taxied back along the runway to a driveway leading to Hagen’s house. Looking both ways for traffic, I taxied across the road and up Hagen’s driveway to the grass covered tiedown area. A tight one-eighty turn and the plane was in line with the anchor points.

  Hagen watched my approach and was standing on the wooden deck spanning the full width of the house. In stature he and I were the same, five feet ten inches and one hundred ninety five pounds. Clothing size also the same. The similarity ended there. I tend to be a bit rounded and usually struggled against extra pounds. Hagen was all muscle and sinew with hardly an ounce of fat. Under a shock of curly black hair, with no sign of gray or receding, were lean, angular features. His piercing, blue eyes were deep set under dark eyebrows. Sometimes, he sported a neatly trimmed mustache as he did now. More often than not, Hagen looked serious—in keeping with his Germanic upbringing perhaps—and this invariably gave people the impression he was unfriendly. The opposite was true; Hagen had a great sense of humor. When he smiled, his whole countenance lit up. This was one of his attributes so, when situations warranted, I’d nudge him discreetly and mutter, “Smile damn it.”

  Hagen raised his hand in greeting, and smiled, as I killed the engine and switched off the navigation lights, radio, and main electrical power. I opened the door and he walked over, greeting me with a cheery “Morning Doug.” Still smiling, he took my small nylon overnight bag from me. I installed the control yoke lock and climbed out, locked the door, and secured the plane at three points with the tiedown ropes. It was less than thirty minutes since I had taken off from runway 32 at Anchorage International Airport.

  The previous summer I made this trip a dozen times—usually Friday after work. Hagen was carrying out extensive remodeling of his house and I helped whenever possible. The house started as a small one bedroom bungalow but we jacked up the existing structure, poured a completely new foundation, and built a two-story extension, partly overlapping the existing structure. The house was now two thousand square feet of living space and was really too large for Hagen who, like me, was a survivor of divorce and enjoying his single life. I doubted Hagen would ever part with this property because he liked the location so much. Besides, he had put in many hours to make the house just the way he wanted.

  During the construction months we established a routine of going to The Pantry Restaurant for many of our meals. We agreed to go there this morning. Hagen deposited my bag in the house and we climbed into his Jeep Cherokee parked in the open garage. As he pulled into the driveway, he pressed the button of the transmitter to close the garage door and we headed toward town.

  Wasilla evolved, rather than developed, into a queue of general stores, restaurants, and gas stations strung haphazardly along a half mile stretch of the Parks Highway. The area experienced a boom in the late seventies and early eighties and was tidied up considerably in the process. The main highway through town now had four lanes with turn lanes in the center. Most parking areas in front of the buildings were paved. The town was still far short of beautiful but, was very much improved. Hagen drove to the paved parking space by The Pantry and we walked, between parked vehicles, the short distance to the entrance.

  In many ways Hagen was a man of habit. Today was no exception. As I could have predicted, he pumped a couple of quarters into the Anchorage Times paper box and pulled out the thick Saturday morning edition. He always studied and fiercely debated front page politics. He never caught on that I, and others, often wound him up deliberately by an opposing opinion. Nonchalance about an issue was also enough to get him going. Before we were seated, a point in the headlines grabbed his attention and I was already fanning the flames by taking an opposing stance.

  Our favorite waitress—cute enough to make us both forget politics—greeted us cheerily with an exaggerated British accent as she tried to mimic my genuine one. She poured our coffee with a flourish without even asking if we wanted any.

  In reply to her question, “The usual, old chap?” We said, “yes.”

  Hagen broke from his paper long enough to give her the eye and to razz her a bit, then was back into page one with the comment, “Listen to what those jerks in Washington are proposing now.” I set a trend of tactfully avoiding further comments. When our meal arrived, Hagen set aside the paper, waded in with his usual gusto and was back into section one in no time. He always had a voracious appetite for food. If he hadn’t been so energetic, I think he would have had a serious weight problem. As it was, he stayed disgustingly lean and fit. I, who always fretted about the kind of food I consumed, and the calories it contained, struggled with my weight. I ate more slowly and sometimes used it as an excuse not to respond at all to some of Hagen’s comments.

  We had no firm commitments for the weekend so we took our time over extra coffee and engaged in a lengthy conversation with other regular patrons. At 10 o’clock we paid the tab and left the restaurant. Hagen, having finished with the “meaningful” parts, left the entire paper folded neatly on the table. Someone would enjoy it now if they wished. If I were careful, he might not mention politics again until the next newspaper got him cranked up.

  The sunshine was warm and bright. Breakup arrived early in Southcentral Alaska this year. It was now the end of May and the surface snow was melted away and ice was gone from lakes hereabout. There was however, still deep snow on the higher levels of the Chugach Mountains, clearly visible from Wasilla. Typical of Alaska, shady spots would be chilly for another month. Much of the warmth we felt came from being in direct sunlight.

  We decided to take a short drive to the Little Susitna River which passed about six miles north of Wasilla. There was a picturesque spot where the road bridge crossed the river. It was a quiet place to enjoy the sunshine. We also wanted to discuss our plans for the summer.

  Hagen drove the Jeep northward along the gravel road at a steady fifty miles an hour. Loose gravel popped and pinged from under the wide tires and rattled off the underside of the vehicle. Our speed seemed to iron out most of the washboard effect of the road. The surrounding flat land supported a variety of trees and they were beginning to look green. The leaves of the silver birch, aspens, and alders in particular seemed to burst forth in the space of a few days. Clearings were covered with dwarf willows and other lower growth shrubs. Moose browsed on them during the winter. It was common to see moose in yards, on roads, and in meadows especially when the snow was deep on higher elevations. They migrate to higher levels as snow melts away.

  We arrived at the bridge and, as we expected, the river was swollen with melting snow from the mountains. The water was sparkling clear and looked cold. Hagen drove over the one-lane-wide trestle bridge and turned left onto a wide gravel bar. We were the only visitors in this popular summer picnic spot. We left the Jeep and walked back onto the bridge to look down into the stream. There were no fish, except maybe grayling or trout lurking in the eddies downstream of the larger rocks. Soon there would be several runs of spawning salmon. From right here, we’ll be able to count hundreds of fish.

  We strolled for a short distance downstream along the south bank. Then we clambered over washed up trees, sand bars, and banks of gravel, which had changed shape and location sin
ce last summer. During Spring breakup, ice dams and force of water rearranged many things in its path. Many serpentine rivers and streams cut new paths during breakup. They left large, crescent shaped sloughs and ponds where the previous year’s river flowed.

  In a sandy patch, there was a large fallen tree trunk. It was firmly anchored with its roots buried under a mass of boulders and gravel and its remaining upper branches swept down stream. It was a pleasant spot to lounge, enjoy the sunshine, and talk.

  Hagen and I were really different in personality and character. He was from Germany and I’m from England and it gave us something in common. We were both immigrants who became U.S. citizens. We struggled to make ends meet in our new homeland and it was our stubborn European work ethic which pulled us through tough times. We experienced trials and tribulations of divorce, but now found ourselves in the enviable, if not well deserved, position of being “unencumbered.” We felt in control of our lives and able to come and go as we pleased.

  We shared many common interests and in our free time, joined on many ventures, skiing, hiking, fishing, and on projects like his house. One summertime interest we pursued with tremendous zeal was prospecting for gold.

  This was, after all, Alaska. Gold played, and still plays, a significant role in the economy of the State. Gold was avidly searched for by many, some more successfully than others of course. The rewards for much effort could be zero. If lucky, you could make a good living searching for gold.

  Some years ago Hagen “caught the bug” and carried out preliminary research on several likely places. One of these was a very remote area north of the Al-Can Highway near the Canadian border. The “gold bug” eventually caught me. As a result, last summer we flew over three valleys and took a series of photographs. During winter months we pieced together the enlarged photo’s and now had a photo mosaic. We were proud of our aerial survey and had a good idea of what the prospect area was like. We thought we understood the challenges of going into this remote place, about forty miles from the nearest road.