Mystery in Trib 2 Read online

  Was our gold-mining paying? Of course not, but it was a wonderful change from our work routine in Anchorage. The gold fever had slowly subsided but it was still a good reason to get out in the fresh air, to commune with nature and to rejuvenate body and soul. Forty miles from the nearest gravel road, made this place remote enough to slake even Hagen’s thirst for adventure.

  Then there was always a little financial reward for our hard work. The price of gold had zoomed upward dramatically in recent months and made our work more worthwhile. Nevertheless we were now aware of the statistics and knew full well that great riches befell only a fortunate few gold-miners. Like thousands before us we persevered in the hope that we might hit on a rich pocket or the legendary big one with the next shovelful of dirt.

  Doug and Hagen on Ladue Ridge

  Chapter Two

  The Discovery

  With regular jobs to return to, our days spent on the claim counted as premium time. We drove ourselves hard even mercilessly putting in as much as twelve or fourteen hours some days when the weather was favorable.

  It was, however, too much to ask of ourselves to work every single day, so we took rest and recuperation about every fifth day. Sometimes we complemented our diet by fishing the nearby Ladue. Our dry flies tantalized large, fat grayling lurking in dark pools beneath overhanging banks. We returned most catches gently to the stream but occasionally we had a change of diet. Other times we packed a picnic lunch and hiked to explore the area some more.

  Monday. For what little it mattered. We had put in our four days’ worth and were quite deserving of a change. Awakening to a gloriously sunny morning, we decided to hike to the top of the ridge where the main trail lay.

  “Let’s go to the high point,” suggested Hagen. “We’ll have a great view and there should be lots of nice, ripe blueberries.”

  We consumed a hearty breakfast. Then drinks and trail snacks were prepared. Always a little extra food and water to see us through an emergency. We packed rain gear in case the weather turned, binoculars and, of course, we took along our weapons. I carried my 30-06 and Hagen his 12-gauge, pump-action shotgun. Both loaded for bear, though we fervently hoped our weapons would never have to be put to the real test. We debated whether to take Hagen’s camera, zoom lens and tripod and finally decided we should.

  “Bit heavy but you never know what we’ll encounter.” said Hagen.

  “Here, let me put the tripod in my pack.

  Recently he had refused to take a photograph without using the tripod for support. “Blew too many otherwise good photo’s.” he said.

  The camp was tidied. All food, as usual, secured in the bear-proof aluminum chest.

  After numerous trips Herman’s wide tires had trampled a defined path from the main trail to the claim and we could have been lazy and ridden very easily. However, we wanted to hike so we opted to climb the most direct route, more or less straight up the steep hillside. It was an interesting but arduous climb, treacherously steep in some places. Fifteen hundred feet from the valley floor to the highest point.

  Directly upslope from the claim the trees were exceptionally large with trunks as much as twenty-four inches in diameter. Several had fallen victim to high wind many years earlier and now formed tangled, moss covered, obstacles. Midway, rocky outcrops formed shear cliffs that we had to circumnavigate. At the higher elevations the trees diminished in size and finally smaller alpine growth proliferated.

  Over the years we had made this trip several times. We had learned how to avoid the cliffs, dense thickets of willows, alders and vicious, thorny devils club. Still there were perilously steep places where it was necessary to drag ourselves upward grasping roots, branches and rocks. All the way through the areas of limited visibility, mindful that we were in grizzly and black bear country, we made lots of noise and kept our weapons handy. As we crested the steepest part of the slope we passed by three mysterious, water-filled craters. We stumbled upon them during our second summer out here. For want of a better explanation we decided they must be bomb craters. In which case they had been there a long time because mature trees were growing all around.

  We took numerous breaks to catch our breath and to give my screaming muscles a rest. “What! Already?” Hagen never admitted to having this particular weakness. It took us two hours to reach the open, high tundra and join the main trail. Here we took a well-deserved rest in the middle of a patch of particularly succulent blueberries.

  “We’ll pick a couple of quarts of these on the way back,” I said. I had thoughtfully brought some Ziplok plastic bags for that very purpose. Back at camp we would preserve them in a jar submerged in the cold stream, a simple but effective means of refrigeration.

  After thirty minutes, suitably rested, we set off to walk the mile and a half of gently rising trail toward the high point. As we walked, arctic ground squirrels stood at attention and shrieked a warning that their territory was being invaded. A pair of large ravens happened along and landed nearby to briefly check us out before continuing on their way. For a while a clutch of spruce hens ran along a few yards ahead of us, seemingly reluctant to leave the trail for the cover of the shrubs.

  Hagen stopped at one point and indicated a pile of bear scat, partly digested blue berries evident. “We aren’t the only ones with blueberries in our diet,” he said. “That hasn’t be there very long.”

  I agreed. “Time to worry if it’s still steaming.” A tired joke in grizzly bear country. A little more watchful than before, we continued along the trail.

  On our maps the rounded dome was marked as 3,950 feet in elevation. It had no name. It was, however, the highest point of the main trail so we enjoyed a tremendous, panoramic view of a huge part of wilderness Alaska. The only sign of man’s presence was the faint trail we followed. The expansive view was refreshing after our hard work in the claustrophobic confines of Trib 1 valley.

  Now our binoculars were put to good use glassing around and studying some faraway features. A couple of moose were visible, just dark shapes, browsing on emerald vegetation at the fringe of a pond near the east fork of the Fortymile River. The Prindle Volcano, to the northwest, always fascinated us with its multicolored purple, gray, orange, and green flanks. The result of minerals spewed forth during past eruptions. For some inexplicable reason I lowered my glasses to the slope below us and was surprised to see a grizzly bear grazing in the low growth shrubs 200 yards away.

  “Wow. There’s a grizzly bear.” I pointed.

  It took Hagen but a few seconds to confirm my sighting.

  “Yeah. That’s a grizzly all right. Always seem to spot them when you least expect to.”

  I focused my binoculars carefully. “It looks quite large. Look at the humped shoulders and small ears. I think that’s the features of a boar. I sure hope he doesn’t see us.”

  Hagen plucked a few blades of dry grass and tossed them in the air. “Wind’s from the southeast so I don’t think he’ll catch our scent. I’m going to get a photo. Glad we decided to bring the camera.”

  We delved into our packs and working quietly set up the camera on the tripod.

  “Hey. Not bad. This lens pulls him in really well. Boy, he’s really blond.” Hagen clicked off three frames.

  “Got that last one as he lifted his head. It’ll make a great picture.”

  I peered through the camera viewfinder. “That’ll make a good picture. He’s a big one and we’re awfully close. I think we should get out of here and leave him to his business.” The view through the zoom lens was scary.

  Grizzly Bear – Up near the high point.

  “If we stop to pick berries on the way back we had better keep an eye open. Could be open season on berry pickers.”

  Hagen laughed nervously. “We’ll keep an eye open all right. We’ve come this far. Let’s walk along the ridge between Trib 2 and Trib 3.” He carefully packed away his camera and zoom lens and I repacked the tripod.

  The ridge led us away from the bear so I agreed. “If w
e go to the end we might see signs of that trail into Trib 3,” I suggested. “I wonder if anyone is working down there now?”

  “If the trail has been used at all we should see it quite clearly.”

  During our exploratory hike to Trib 3 valley four years ago we discovered a placer mine, the remnants of a camp and clearly defined trail leading from the southeast. We had never revisited the site but often wondered if we had near neighbors, occasionally, like our selves, wresting gold from the earth.

  After exploring the depths of the valley, we had hiked northward along this same bald ridge. It had been a memorable day of hiking. While we were busy exploring the valley the weather quickly turned foul. Our chosen route from the valley depths up to the ridge turned out to be torturously steep, wet and slippery. Despite our rain gear, we eventually were soaked to the skin by the dripping wet shrubbery and by incessant driving rain. On the exposed ridge we were chilled to the bone by a keen wind.1

  Looking back to the experience, we had to agree that had been our worst, possibly most dangerous, day of hiking. Hypothermia was always a real possibility under such wet, cold conditions. Instead of hunkering down and staying dry, we had foolishly pushed the boundaries. Fortunately we survived unscathed. But it had been a lesson to us. We vowed never to be so foolhardy again.

  By contrast, today was really pleasant, warm and dry. We took a last long look at the grizzly, still grazing, and then headed south.

  A gradual slope led down to the spine of the long ridge. No trail to follow but the shale surface made for easy walking. Low growing blueberry, bearberry, low-bush red cranberry, heather, and small, colorful, hardy alpine plants formed a veritable carpet underfoot. Mountain harebell, narcissus flowered anemone and wind flower, quivering in the light breeze, added a touch of delicate color. Tiny creamy white caribou moss clung tenaciously to the stony surface. Particularly spectacular were large, rounded clumps of rarely seen purple-flowered moss campion.

  Occasional craggy outcrops of bedrock provided meager shelter but promoted the growth of clumps of gnarled, winter-blasted spruce and northern hemlock. Amazing was the variety of plant life in what is, even by ourselves, referred to as “wilderness.”

  Hagen gained a lead as we walked south. He was usually ahead but he was obviously determined to make good aerobic exercise out of this part. He was really striding out. By comparison I took things at a more leisurely pace. Approaching the slight hump close to the southern extremity of the ridge I was lagging some way behind. He had already mounted a raised rocky ledge forming at the eastern rim.

  Excitedly from a hundred yards away he hailed me, “Hey Doug, come and look at this.” He was crouched down looking at something.

  I picked my way across the last few intervening yards of rock-strewn surface to join him,

  “What’s up?”

  “What do you make of this?” He shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun and pointed down into a foot-wide cleft in the side of the rock. “That looks like a piece of aircraft.”

  The shadowy fissure was partially filled with earth and shale but there was something metallic too. Reaching down I grasped the end of the object. A tug failed to release it but I felt it yield a little. “Let’s have a closer look.”

  We laid our belongings to one side on the rock and both dropped to our knees.

  Scooting around I gained a better position so that my right arm reached into the fissure. Obtaining a good grip I heaved. It was jammed in there very firmly. With all my strength I pulled.

  “Ha, ha. Here it comes.”

  We were surprised. The object was a crumpled strip of heavy-gauge aluminum. It tapered from one inch wide at the end I grasped to four inches wide at the other end. The larger end was completely crumpled where it had been jammed in the bottom of the narrow fissure. Signs of faded green paint adhered to one surface. Flattened out it would be four feet long.

  “No wonder it was hard to pull out.” Hagen commented. “How in the heck did it get jammed in there?”

  “I don’t know but it’s definitely part of an aircraft.” I tapped it gently on the rock to release the clinging earth. “Look,” I peered at the wider end. “It ripped partway along a line of rivets and then across the panel. At this wide end it’s a double thickness still held together by some rivets. There was a rib attached here and here.” I indicated two places where remnants of rivets were visible at a right angle to the main row.

  “It sure looks like a bit of aircraft. Judging by its shape it must have been the edge of a door or something like that. I wonder how it got to be in there. Jammed in pretty hard too.” Hagen lifted his cap and ran strong fingers through a shock of dark, curly hair.

  “It seemed to be driven in from this side so it didn’t simply fall from a plane.”

  “You’re right.” I hefted the piece of aluminum which, despite its size, was quite light.

  Hagen took it and examined it closely. “I don’t profess to be an expert on aircraft aluminum but I’d say it’s been here a long time. Most of the paint’s gone and this gray patina is typical of old, weathered aluminum. The part that was buried is etched by corrosive elements from the soil.” He scratched the surface with his thumbnail. “Yes, it has to be pretty old.”

  “Humph!” I exclaimed. “Sounds like a pretty expert opinion from someone who claims not to be an expert. And you’ve already concluded it’s part of a door.” Hagen, like me, was in fact quite knowledgeable due to a career in mechanical trades but neither of us had worked with airframe fabrication.

  I, too, examined the aluminum and had to agree with his observations, but I liked to needle him when there was a chance. “This gray patina is typical of old aluminum,” I mimicked his choice of words. Hagen almost bit but realized I was baiting him. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s been here a really long time. Shoot, it could be forty years old. Judging by the color it might have been a military aircraft.”

  A mystery. We sat on the edge of the rock ledge and looked around. For a brief moment we were drawn from our discovery by the wonderful Alaska scenery. A light, balmy breeze wafted from the south. It was a lovely, clear day and we enjoyed a tremendous view over the Ladue river valley, the Tetlin ridges and all the way west to the Mentasta Mountains. South, a hundred miles away, stood the snow-clad peaks of the Wrangells, immense and gleaming in the sunshine.

  Hagen stood, took out his binoculars and swept the Trib 3 valley to the southeast. “I can’t see any sign of that trail. I wouldn’t be surprised if no one is working the claim.”

  “That’s the only way into the valley with any kind of vehicle,” I commented after scanning the area myself. “I doubt very much if anything could negotiate those steep slopes at the head of the valley. We were hard pressed to climb down on foot.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, it’s very steep and overgrown. From the south would be the only way in. Huh. Maybe they’ve given up.”

  After a little while Hagen put his binoculars away and started to walk around the immediate area with eyes cast to the ground.

  “Y’know, that piece could only have come from a crashed aircraft,” he said. “And it had to be a pretty large one. That gauge of aluminum is not used on small planes like your Cessna 150, at least not on the skin of the plane. If there was a crash here, surely there would be some other bits and pieces left behind.

  Fair comment, I thought and joined him in the search, “What if a plane just scraped this ridge and sheared off that piece?” I asked.

  Hagen stopped in his tracks, cocked a dark eyebrow and looked quizzically at me. “You mean with thousands of feet of air space it just clipped the top of this ridge and kept on flying like nothing had happened?”

  “Well, I didn’t say like nothing happened but it’s possible. Huh. Those holes on the hillside above the claim, we always did suspect they were bomb craters.” I was referring to the three large craters we had just passed on the way. “What if one of the pilots practicing out here misjudged his altitude during a bombing
run and only just scraped by this ridge?”

  “Huh. Well that must have given him a new perspective on the joys of flight. I still think there must be some other evidence around here.” Hagen resumed his search.

  “If that’s the case and that piece of metal was rammed into the hole, wouldn’t there be other signs of impact?” I walked back to the rock. “Perhaps we’ve overlooked some evidence here.”

  We both studied the weathered upper surface of the rock slab.

  “This could have been a scratch at one time.” I indicated a long, unnatural mark on the upper surface of the stone. “It’s eroded so much you would normally overlook it. That’s a clear indication of age.”

  Hagen critically eyed the narrow groove running roughly southeast to northwest for a distance of four feet across the lichen-coated surface. “I think it is. In fact there’s more than one,” he said stroking his hand over the surface. “This is the remains of another scratch and this big chip out of the edge doesn’t seem to be natural either.” he indicated an irregular area on the edge of the fissure. “Yeah. I say something definitely scraped this surface. And scraped it pretty hard.”

  I agreed, “Now, if those marks are any indication, the plane must have been on a northwesterly heading when it hit. Just about puts it in line with the craters.”

  “You still think some overzealous bomber pilot cut it just a bit too close one day.” He turned to the northwest; “From the position of the chip and the scratches, I agree the plane was heading that way, toward the craters. Though, I can’t see any pilot impacting here and then following through to drop bombs over there. He’d have chickened out after he hit this.”

  “Well,” I grudgingly admitted, “I think you are right on that point, for once that is. Maybe there is no connection.”

  “I suppose he could have jettisoned them as a matter of safety. But you know I’m usually right.” Hagen gave an exaggerated, self-satisfied grin. He was getting his own back.