Gold in Trib 1 Page 2

  We were resigned that we’d have to hike in for the initial look around and we were planning to do just that in eight weeks. We had hiked a dozen times before and knew the importance of careful advance planning. We agreed that, to reassure ourselves about this challenging trip, we needed to fly over the proposed hiking route one more time.

  Hagen suggested dropping tools and supplies from the air during this flight and I thought it an excellent idea. Our backpacks would be lighter and without the weight, our traveling would be easier.

  Backpacking heavy items like shovels and pick axes for such a distance was out of the question, yet we needed them to prospect effectively. We had no experience dropping anything from an aircraft, so we decided to practice the next day by dropping a package nearby.

  We both were forty-three, but physically fit in our own way. We led active lives: hiked, canoed, and fished in summer, skied cross country and downhill in winter. When we were not engaged in outdoor activities, we participated in aerobics, country western and polka dancing. Sometimes, it seemed, there was simply not enough free time from our regular work to do the things we wanted.

  Hiking to where we thought the “gold bug” was, would be an ambitious hike. We’d have to walk forty miles, with backpacks, to reach our prospecting site. There was an old trail we would follow along the high ridges for part of the way. We figured three days to walk in, six or seven days to explore and prospect, and two days to walk out. Our earlier hikes paled by comparison.

  Exhausting this subject of advance planning, we lounged, facing the sun, our backs against the tree for about an hour. The warmth of the sun soaked us through. Hagen suggested we look at a possible site where we could practice air drops. We rose, stretched ourselves and walked back to the Jeep. It was unbearably warm inside with the sun blazing in through the windows. We cranked both side windows down as we pulled off the gravel bar and onto the road. Things soon cooled down.

  In ten minutes, by way of the back roads, we reached the place Hagen had in mind for the practice drop. It was accessed by a little-used gravel road and was representative of our planned prospect site, except there was no nearby stream. We walked across a hundred yards or so of coarse grass to a slight rise in the terrain. This looked like a good place to practice. There were only a few medium sized spruce trees scattered over the area and plenty of open ground. After looking around, we decided to make our target a distinctive clump of spruce trees. If we flew parallel to the road, we’d easily spot them because they stood in an otherwise clear area. It was not necessary to hit the trees with our package. We only needed to come close to prove our “bombing” technique.

  Like many aircraft in Alaska, my 150 was modified to make removal of the right door easy. It would only take a few minutes to prepare the plane for the practice air drop the next day.

  Chapter 2

  Hatcher Pass

  Fish Hook Road leads to Hatcher Pass. Being only a few miles from there, we decided to drive into Hatcher Pass and look around. We hadn’t been to the pass since March when cross country skiing with friends.

  Hatcher Pass is a spectacularly scenic place any time of year. It is a good place to take visitors for a taste of Alaska wilderness. It is possible, during the summer months, to drive all the way over the pass emerging near Willow, a small town on the Parks Highway. There was a good chance the road was still closed at higher elevations with avalanche snow or erosion from melting snow.

  We wouldn’t attempt to drive too far today, only to the cross country ski area near an Alpine lodge and restaurant. It was late spring but there would still be a few visitors trying to ski the last bit of available snow.

  The road approached the pass by crossing a bridge over the Little Susitna River and then turned to follow the course of the river. The road was gravel from the bridge onward but maintained up to the ski area. Almost immediately past the bridge there was a natural gateway formed by a rocky cliff on the left and a towering column of rock on the right. Past this landmark, we were within the boundaries of Hatcher Pass.

  In the pass, the river was very different to the quiet and smooth flowing stream where we rested. Here, water was angry, foaming white as it dashed pell-mell through confined channels and over large, well-rounded rocks and against massive boulders. The trees grew at the water’s edge. There were a few places to park a vehicle and follow a short pathway to the river’s edge. Five miles up the valley road, the tree line stopped and willows and alders took over. Above four thousand feet, terrain was typical arctic tundra with only low growth shrubs and lichens clinging tenaciously to the surface.

  The best times to visit the pass was fall when there was a profusion of color. We had both taken some beautiful photographs of the river and valley in years past and had framed several enlargements of which we were quite proud.

  We saw many active placer mines, at the lower levels, shut down for the winter months but were just now being reactivated. The whole area is spoken for and it is now impossible to stake a new claim. Most mines are sited on the ancient benches where the river course used to be. Rumor has it some mines are quite productive. Miners jealously guard their claims. It pays to be careful when hiking this area. There were reports of frontier style justice being used on occasion. A few areas were clearly posted and set aside for visitors to try their hand at panning. We had tried here but found only gold dust.

  The road began to show signs of deterioration further up the pass, and there were places where runoff from melting snow caused deep washes. The Jeep negotiated these easily but Hagen moaned about getting his clean vehicle dirty. We pressed on, climbing above the tree line, until we reached a junction where the left branch headed on up the pass and the right led to the ski area. High on the mountain side ahead we could see old buildings and remains of historic Independence Gold Mine.

  In years past, Independence Gold Mine had been a sizable hard rock operation. The tailings from shafts driven deep into the mountain were clearly visible. They looked like large terraces fanning out below ruined buildings. One large building, originally a dormitory for mine workers and recently renovated, was open in the summer as a museum. We took the road to the right, and, in a couple of minutes reached the parking lot by the ski lodge.

  On a good weekend, in the prime skiing season, this parking space was packed with vehicles. Today, only five vehicles nosed in to melting snow banks. Snow cover was visible in the pass, but conditions were not very good for skiing. Anyone out today was likely to be enjoying sunshine and spring warmth more than anything.

  Hagen parked the Jeep in a spot clear of breakup mud and we picked our way carefully along the pathway to the ski lodge and restaurant. The building wasn’t fancy but sturdily built from rough sawn lumber and trimmed logs. The high A-frame end, facing the valley, was glass and afforded an excellent view. As we entered the restaurant we saw only four people seated in the lounge area by the windows. They were dressed for cross country skiing, but, when asked, confirmed conditions were very poor.

  I wasn’t very hungry but Hagen was “starving.” However, I talked him into having only coffee and a bran muffin. Then, we relaxed by the window until our snack arrived.

  As we ate, we contemplated the scenery. “The Chugach mountains are twenty miles away and we are planning to walk forty miles.” I said. “It puts scale to what we’re about to attempt.”

  “Seems rather sobering,” Hagen replied between bites of his hamburger. “So, the distance might be the same, but the terrain will be different, very different. We just need to be careful. We don’t want any disasters.”

  Our conversation digressed to other subjects and almost an hour passed before we paid the tab and left the restaurant. We climbed into the Jeep, mindful not to carry too much mud into the interior and pulled out of the parking lot. Hagen drove cautiously down the slippery, muddy surface. Hairpin curves regularly claimed a few vehicles. There were no guard rails, and at several places the edge was defined only by a forty-five-degree slope to the val
ley floor. Going off the road at one of these places was guaranteed to quickly ruin a day.

  Hagen was not a cautious skier. These were not recognized downhill ski slopes. He, however, blasted down them last winter, emerged at the bottom plastered with snow. Evidence of close encounters with bushes and dwarf willows still clung to his skis. Several times I left him at the top of the slope and drove to the bottom to meet him. Each time I fully expected him to be a medivac case but he survived unscathed.

  We took Fish Hook Road directly to Wasilla stopping first at the self service car wash. Feeding quarters into the hungry coin box, we gave the Jeep a good, high pressure, soapy wash and a rinse that removed all traces of Hatcher Pass mud. We dried the vehicle using a couple of old towels Hagen kept in the back. Hagen drove slowly back to the house, so as not to raise any dust.

  Starting the electric door opener, he drove up the driveway into the garage. Unlike many garages, which was a resting place for everything people wanted to keep but never get around to using, Hagen’s garage was, clean, tidy, and everything had its place. It was considerably larger than a standard two car garage and there was a large workshop extension at the rear. Hagen built large cabinets against one wall, providing ample storage space for ski equipment, hiking and camping gear, and fishing gear. There was also, a neat place for miscellany not requiring warm storage. The garage was not heated. Installed in the corner by the doorway was a heavy duty fan heater that took the chill off when necessary.

  From the cabinets, Hagen selected a variety of tools, which I carried over to the work bench. Soon we had a shovel, pickax, a long handled ax, and a thirty-inch bow saw. We checked the dimensions of the tools against the interior of the Cessna. They’d fit vertically in the passenger compartment and fit into the baggage space behind the seats.

  Delving into the cabinets again Hagen came out with a bundle of coarse burlap. We wrapped the tools tightly in a bundle secured with two-inch wide duct tape. Hagen slipped off his boots and popped into the house and reappeared a moment later with a set of bathroom scales. The bundle weighed less than forty pounds. If we could drop these on the prospect area, we’d have tools with which to work.

  We speedily removed the right door of the plane. Hagen slid the passenger seat back as far as it would go and climbed in. I lifted the bundle and wedged it inside the door frame along side Hagen’s legs. Hagen hugged the bundle close to keep it clear of the control yoke then proved how he could manhandle the bundle and pitch it outward and downward without interfering with any part of the aircraft. It seemed a practical idea. Our trial flight and airdrop the next day would tell us for sure. The door was easily managed. We replaced it, secured the aircraft, tidied up the work bench and then went into the house.

  Hagen said he wanted to get married again some day. The problem was he, and I too for that matter, had adapted to single life. We seemed to be too busy pursuing other interests to do any serious lady chasing.

  Hagen was quite proud of his house and kept it very tidy. First, the connection between the garage and the house was a sizable mud room. Boots and shoes were placed on built-in shelves while sitting on a bench under a sunny window. Next came the kitchen, followed by the living room and dining area in a traditional L shape. To the back of the house was another large room, designed to be a den, but Hagen used it more as an office. Everything was all very clean and tidy, shattering the common image of frontier lifestyle, and, in particular, the Alaska bachelor lifestyle.

  Hagen liked a touch of class, too. The living room and dining room walls supported a fine collection of expensively framed paintings, most of which depicted scenes of Alaska. He particularly liked pioneer scenes and American Indians. There were also a couple of Remington bronze statues and some Alaska Native soapstone carvings on display. Upstairs in the master bedroom were five framed commemorative prints of the Iditarod dog sled race, held each year. Many of Hagen’s paintings had appreciated in value since purchase and had been a good investment and a source of pleasure. What he had was tasteful and he was justifiably proud of his collection and his home.

  Another surprise, to most people, was that Hagen was an exceptionally good cook. He had a knack for putting the tastiest meals together with whatever was on hand.

  We lounged around for an hour watching a little TV, sipping 7-UP, and chatting about a variety of things before Hagen decided he was getting hungry and started to prepare dinner. I knew better than to help so I continued watching TV until Hagen called me to the table.

  Dinner turned out to be a tossed green salad and spaghetti bolognaise loaded with meat. It was one of Hagen’s specialties with just the right amount of spice. There was crusty French bread warmed with a hint of garlic butter and for dessert some fresh fruit salad. A glass of wine added “that touch of class” we both appreciated.

  When we finished eating, I helped clear dishes from the table. Hagen would accept no further help. He had his own routine and was quite intolerant of anyone else in his kitchen. One more reason why finding a suitable companion might prove difficult in his case.

  After the cleanup was finished, we watched a good Clint Eastwood movie until eleven and then decided to turn-in. Hagen retired to the upstairs suite while I showered in the smaller downstairs bathroom. I made up a bed on the couch in the living room.

  In spite of the size of the house, Hagen furnished only the master suite of upstairs rooms. Before retiring, I had a few chapters of a paperback novel to read so I settled down with my book. I drifted off to sleep with the book on my chest, rolled over later just long enough to switch out the light.

  Chapter 3

  Practice Air Drop

  Sunday morning dawned with the raucous sound of a plane taking off and we were forced to enjoy an earlier part of the morning than we had planned. It was however, a beautiful morning with a clear view of the snow capped Chugach Mountains from the living room window. We were ready in no time at all and drove to the Pantry for a leisurely breakfast. By chance, a good friend, Joe, was there having breakfast so we joined him. Joe was one of those people who, knowledgeable in politics, could really bring Hagen to a boiling point. Joe brought a measure of character to the restaurant, and, as he did this morning, made it a lively place.

  We finally pried ourselves out of there and by eleven-thirty had the plane prepped. We took the door off and Hagen was wedged into place along with the tool bundle. I climbed in, checked the controls, and started the engine. After a few minutes of warm-up, we taxied down the drive-way and held just short of the runway. I did an engine run-up check and contacted Palmer FSS. I collected the latest status including barometric pressure, ambient temperature, and wind. It was a balmy sixty one degrees. Hagen spotted a Super Cub on downwind so we waited a few minutes. It took a complete landing and taxied out of the way and then we taxied to the eastern end of the runway.

  With a last look around, I applied full power and commenced the take off roll. The Continental engine’s crackle assaulted our ears. Gravel pinged from under the tires and had Hagen cringing in his seat. As we lifted off the gravel surface, the noise level reduced dramatically. The engine note was high until I leveled the plane at one thousand feet and reduced the rpm to twenty one hundred.

  Mindful of Hagen nervously seated by the open door, I commenced a gentle right turn and started to follow the country road north toward the selected drop site. It took a little over five minutes to get there. Amazing!

  Our choice of target was a good one. A half mile to the nearest house and the clump of trees we had selected was easy to locate. Immediately, I coaxed the plane into a descending left turn and lined up with the target. I concentrated on my flying. “Hagen,” I shouted. “It’s only a trial run so don’t do anything foolish.” I tried to visualize the trees as the threshold of a runway and flew as if for a landing. Dropping the flaps to thirty degrees and selecting carb heat, I slowed to about fifty eight miles per hour, and trimmed for a gentle glide slope. I adjusted the engine revs and controls to keep us on track an
d was rewarded by the sight of the trees flashing by twenty feet below the wheels. Quickly I switched off carb heat, piled on the power, and climbed away to a safer altitude.

  Hagen yelled, “Let’s get this over with!” and clutched his burlap bundle closer to his chest.

  I made another gentle left 360 and lined up again with the target. This time Hagen sat up a little and eased the bundle out into the slipstream. Now he could see the approaching target. He’d decide the best time to heave the bundle outward and downward away from the plane. Carefully I tried to replicate the last approach. I sensed, rather than saw, Hagen wrestling the bundle. The aircraft lurched upward. There were no nasty bumps so I knew the drop had been clean, and, most important, Hagen was still firmly in his seat. By this time, I was busy making sure we didn’t end in the trees. Only when we were back to a safe altitude did I relax.

  I didn’t realize how stressful this was. My back was wet with sweat. Low flying, where there was no runway, was for the birds.

  Now it was time to head back to Wasilla, pick up our tools and check their condition. I didn’t consciously look around for other aircraft during our “bombing” run. It kind of scared me. Now there were several small planes in sight.

  Wasilla had a couple of aircraft in the pattern so I raised Palmer on the radio, advised my intention to make a full stop landing, and then joined in the procession on the downwind leg. The plane ahead was practicing touch-and-goes, and didn’t stop on the runway. It was lifting off again when I turned onto final. I had plenty of time to land and taxi back to Hagen’s driveway before it completed another circuit.

  We quickly tied down the plane and refit and locked the passenger side door. Planes are not the most secure vehicles at the best of times but it was the best we could do.