Gold in Trib 1 Page 5

  Hagen and I found a spot by the hanger to park the plane and our bodies for the night. We knew no one would mind us sleeping by the plane. It was quite common to just spread a ground sheet and sleeping bag under the plane, crawl in, curl up, and go to sleep.

  I taxied the 150 to a vacant tie-down at the outer end of the apron, shut down the engine and systems, and pushed the plane into line with the anchor points. Though we planned to stay with the plane, it was always good policy to tie it down. There was no one there at the service center so we would have to wait until the morning to gas up.

  After we stretched our legs by walking to the simple washrooms near the hanger, we unloaded our ground sheets and sleeping bags. It was iron rations tonight. All we had was a couple of ham and cheese sandwiches and cans of 7-UP.

  We lounged on our sleeping bags for a few minutes to eat and drink but very soon realized every mosquito in Gulkana was homing in on our warm blood supply. There was nothing to do but spray on some repellent and slip into our sleeping bags for further protection. It was too early to settle for the night. Could we call it night? Not really. The sun shone, angled, over the north western horizon. Typical in Alaska were the nearly twenty-four hours of daylight and billions of pesky mosquitoes.

  I pulled my sleeping bag up as far as possible to keep out light and persistent mosquitoes. Eventually, I went to sleep still sensing the hum and motion of my 150.

  Chapter 7

  Air Drop

  Saturday morning was beautiful, sunny, and warm. After a good night’s sleep, we got up early and packed everything and were ready to get on with our day. Unfortunately, the Service Center didn’t open until eight o’clock on Saturdays, and we had to kick our heels for two hours. We had nothing left to eat or drink so we were gasping by the time the attendant arrived.

  He did a good job though, and in ten minutes had a pot of coffee ready. He produced a package of supermarket donuts. In a small lounge, we drank our coffee and in the indoor facilities we freshened up a bit.

  I pumped five gallons of fuel into the tanks of the Cessna. No need for more. It was only one hundred and twenty miles to Tok, our next stop. Besides, I didn’t want the plane to be any heavier than necessary for landing and takeoff. We planned to land at Tok, have a meal, and then fly twelve miles to Tanacross. It was the only way to get a meal. There were no restaurants, or facilities, at Tanacross.

  The Flight Service Station opened, so I walked over to check on weather and to file our flight plan to Tok. The whole area was under high pressure and no significant changes were expected. The fine weather would hold for several days.

  We were tucked into the confines of the Cessna about nine o’clock. I cranked up the engine and taxied to the runway. Our takeoff was lengthy, but safe, and after climbing straight out, we commenced a very gentle climbing turn to the right and followed the Richardson Highway northward.

  Five miles north of the airport we took a turn eastward to Tok. The Richardson Highway continued north toward Paxson, Delta Junction, and Fairbanks. We made a right turn to keep Highway One in sight. We climbed steadily toward ninety five hundred feet. Below, the Gulkana River and the Copper River joined, after draining the valleys of the Amphitheater Mountains, the Mentasta Mountains, and the Wrangells. Countless smaller streams flowed into the Copper River. To the southeast, about twenty-five miles away, Mt. Drum and Mt. Sanford stood pristine and majestic in clear air.

  Our route was over sixty miles of level terrain, but we were heading straight for a deep notch called Mentasta Pass. Sinona Lodge, Slana, and Duffy’s Tavern hunched along rivers and in valleys. They were all small isolated communities. From Slana, Nabesna road stretched south fifty miles toward Devils Mountain and Nabesna. Talk about remote! On the map, a mountain was marked near Nabesna, and called, intriguingly Gold Mountain—Hmmm!

  The Cessna ran smoothly, the cabin temperature was comfortable, and we were moving along at our usual one hundred four miles per hour. Though I wasn’t really checking, I had the impression we were riding a tail wind. In any case, it didn’t take us long to reach the narrow pass entrance. Steep, impressive mountain sides shadowed the highway as it snaked back and forth through the narrow gorge. We maintained a straight flight path by cutting over the shoulders of the mountains to the left or right. Part way through, the valley widened and we had an excellent view of Mentasta Lake and the small community built along its southern shoreline.

  Exiting the pass easterly, we followed the highway again and Tok was about twenty miles straight ahead. I followed the highway, and descended gradually to the town. The sixteen hundred feet of gravel runway lay just to the right. It was parallel with the highway just before the intersection of the Glenn Highway and the Al-Can Highway. From the air the runway looked similar to the one at Wasilla, though trees grew a bit closer all around.

  Tok landing-strip is uncontrolled but overseen by Northway, some distance to the southeast. I called Northway and advised we were about to land at Tok. We were on the down wind leg and looked around to see if there was any other traffic. I wasted no time in turning onto base and final. I kept it short and steep, to within a few feet above the gravel and flared down on contact. Hagen tensed up beside me but it was only the approach that was exciting, the touch down itself was smooth and gentle. I was proud of it. I maintained back pressure on the control column to hold the propeller well clear of the loose gravel and taxied back to the small tiedown area at the northern end of the runway. I kept the engine running for a few minutes to cool down gently while I radioed Northway to close out our flight plan.

  We parked the plane alongside a blue and white Cessna 150 owned by an elderly resident we met on an earlier visit. He lived in a small cabin right by the tie down area. At seventy-three years of age, he was fit and healthy and was still flying. He once told us he flew across country to White-horse Yukon Territory several times a year to visit relatives. He enjoyed our visits and told us we were welcome to park the plane by his anytime. We pounded on the cabin door but there was no one at home. His old, beat up, Ford pickup was nowhere in sight, so we figured he must have been out on some errand. There was already a big pile of freshly split firewood stacked by the cabin. Maybe he was out harvesting in preparation for the winter. Although the cabin had electricity, he relied totally on his wood stove for heat.

  Straight across the road was the rustic Tok Motel and restaurant. We headed there for breakfast. It was a bit late, being ten-thirty, but they said it was no problem. Ten minutes later we were putting away eggs, ham, hash-browns, toast, and coffee. We took care of the bill, noting it was almost double Anchorage prices. Oh well, Tok was, after all, on the famous Al-Can highway and it was still tourist season.

  We walked two hundred yards along the road to the general store and purchased cans of Coke, bread rolls, cheese slices, and a packet of cookies. More Al-Can prices but at least we would not go hungry on the return trip. Back at the plane we conducted a walk around, checking everything, and were soon revving up at the end of the runway. I wanted to take advantage of every foot of runway because the plane was still heavy. It was a long rattling roll. I made sure we had plenty of speed before lifting off and used the extra momentum to carry us up and clear of the trees. Judging by Hagen’s white knuckles, the trees were a little too close for his comfort.

  “What are you doing?” he said between clinched teeth, “Paying me back for all those punishing hikes? When are you going to find long, smooth, asphalt runways?”

  I just grinned.

  Tanacross was only twelve miles away, so I held an altitude of only eight hundred feet as we made the short trip. We soon had the runway in sight and contacted Northway to announce our whereabouts and intentions. The wind favored the longest of the two runways— Hagen’s kind—paved and forty-two hundred feet long. I piloted onto the downwind, looked around for other traffic, and set up for the landing. It was a beauty. No white knuckles this time.

  There was an odd collection of aircraft parked around the hange
r area, including an ancient DC-3. As we taxied, the Dakota was just starting its engines, with a cloud of blue smoke sizzling into the clear air. We puttered politely out of its way to the far side of the apron. We later learned from the attendant that the DC-3 was leased to the Bureau of Land Management and the people on board were counting sheep.

  We located a station attendant and asked if we could fill, and leave the right-hand door with them for a few hours.

  He said, “Help yourself. Leave the door inside the hanger. I leave at five so be back before then or it’s mine for the night.”

  We assured him we would be back long before five. He didn’t ask where we were going without our door. He was used to tight-lipped hunters and miners and tactfully didn’t ask any questions. We had plenty of runway, but I put only a few gallons of fuel in the tanks. Just enough to keep us on the safe side for the round trip.

  Now came the interesting part. Hagen took his seat fully rearward and strapped himself in good and tight. Then I wedged the cumbersome tool bundle by the side of his legs. When he was all set, I climbed into my seat, started the engine and taxied onto the runway. We learned from the first flight, with the door removed, and used foam rubber ear plugs to protect ourselves from the noise. The takeoff was long, and noisy, but we made it without the bundle interfering with the controls in any way. Hagen hugged it close for the takeoff but relaxed once we were settled at four thousand feet.

  There was nothing to do but fly the sixty miles as directly as possible to the drop zone. With Hagen so confined, he really couldn’t see very much. However, I picked up the trail head and kept it in sight all the way to Trib 1. I visualized just how far we were going to have to hike.

  It took forty-five minutes to reach the area. I easily located the spot we had chosen for the drop. We intended, if possible, to explore three individual valleys, with tributaries flowing south into the Ladue River. On our map we named the valleys, from west to east: Trib 1, Trib 2 and Trib 3. We would be dropping the supplies by the side of Trib 1, between the stream and the ridge separating Trib 1 from Trib 2.

  From the air, we could see the first stream, Trib 1, flowing down its narrow channel toward the Ladue River. Eventually, via the Ladue and White River, the stream contributed to the mighty Yukon River.

  We planned everything, even marking the drop zone on an earlier photo. I piloted the plane in a wide, flat circle and lined up with the spot we had in mind. Meanwhile, Hagen untied the streamers of tape and eased the bundle outward into the slipstream. He could lean forward then, and monitor our approach. It was my intention to make a practice run, as we had done at Wasilla, and I coaxed the plane down to a hundred feet above the ground. “Not too low.” I whispered to myself. As we reached the point where the land rose gently away from the swampy valley bottom, Hagen, almost casually this time, threw the bundle outward and downward. It was done so spontaneously and so smoothly I hardly realized the bundle had gone.

  Hagen yelled; “Let’s go!” I needed no urging.

  I was already applying power and scrambling for altitude. Gliding down into a place where there is no runway seemed to go against my grain. Well! So much for a practice runs.

  As we were going around, Hagen shouted, “It looked good. Let’s not wait.”

  I agreed. The less low flying we did out here the better. Still, we had to go around again and drop the food packages.

  In the few minutes it took to circle back into position, Hagen maneuvered all three packages to the doorway and held them there. He was getting pretty brave. He stuck his head out into the slipstream in an attempt to spot the streamers of the tool bundle. I concentrated on slowing the plane and bringing it toward the target. I spotted the streamers and aimed the plane just to the left of them. In case Hagen hadn’t seen them, I shouted a countdown. “Three, two, one, go.” Hagen hurled the packages and eased himself back into his seat, giving me a thumbs up sign. I got busy and made sure we climbed away safely.

  The drop seemed to have been perfect. One more flight over the site revealed a cluster of packages, with streamers clearly visible, barely fifty yards apart.

  Well! There was nothing more we could do about our packages. They were now at the mercy of the wilderness and we would just have to wait until we hiked in to see how well they survived the impact.

  Hagen now cranked his seat forward and made himself comfortable. I piloted the plane north, up the length of Trib 1. There, the valley formed a narrow cleft in the main hillside. We scouted around carefully and satisfied ourselves that no one had been there. At least there were no visible vehicle tracks of any kind. We went east, over the ridge to look at the Trib 2 Valley. Its character was very different to that of Trib 1. Trib 2 was slower and serpentine. The valley looked swampy in spots, and there was a sheen of water in places where it flooded. We had doubts about Trib 2 being a suitable area for our kind of mining.

  The next valley, Trib 3, was much more promising. Its source was further away from the main trail, but it had steep, rocky overhanging bluffs. There were many places where the hillsides were eroded and shale slides went right down to the stream. It was obvious there was erosion and hydraulic action taking place and thus a good chance of finding placer gold.

  As we flew south out of the valley, Hagen pointed to some vehicle tracks leading into the valley from the southeast. It was a faint trail but nevertheless, a trail. Someone had been there at some point in time not too long ago. Perhaps it was a hunting party, or like ourselves, someone prospecting for gold. We had no way of knowing. At least it was at the furthest point, six miles from where we intended to start prospecting.

  Our view around the area completed, I pressed the plane up and over the highest point of the main trail along which we intended to hike. The map showed this point to be three thousand nine hundred fifty feet elevation and about equidistant from Trib 1 and Trib 2. It would mark the end of our hike along a defined trail, and to whichever of the tributaries we reached, it had to be through rough terrain onward.

  I flew the plane parallel with the ridge and the trail to allow Hagen to scout as much as possible. We paid particular attention to the low places on the saddles. We were interested in two aspects of these low points: first to see if they were wet enough to cause a problem, and; secondly to mark our map with potential sources of drinking water. As it turned out, our scouting payed off later.

  Hagen was seemingly quite relaxed by the open doorway and was scribbling notes now and then on the edge of the map. This would all advance our knowledge of the area and better prepare us for the hike. A couple of times, at Hagen’s request, I made right-hand circles around a point to give him a better view of a feature of particular interest.

  Eventually we reached the last slope where the trail dropped steeply toward the Taylor Highway. We had seen all that we could and the next time would be from ground level and done the hard way. It was unbelievable that we were contemplating hiking those forty miles to the prospecting area. Forty miles on a flat map, may be half as much again on the winding trail, following contours of the land.

  I pointed the nose of the 150 toward Tanacross and raised Northway on the radio to inform them of our intentions. They reported traffic for Tanacross but we were able to slip into the pattern and land with no delay. Our bombing run took two hours and ten minutes and we hit the planned target.

  Chapter 8

  Return to Anchorage

  The Tanacross attendant cut us a sideways look as the 150 rolled to a stop. He refrained from asking questions. We reinstalled the right door and topped off the gas tanks. This time I filled the tanks to capacity because we were already fifty pounds lighter and were flying nonstop to Anchorage. During a walk around the plane, I checked the oil and found it was down a quart. The little Continental engine ran well but used oil.

  When the plane was prepared, we sat off to one side and built ourselves sandwiches from the rolls and cheese we purchased earlier. We washed them down with Coke. We’d snack on the cookies later, and, on
the spur of the moment, bought two cans of soft drink from a coin operated machine at the service center.

  I spent a few minutes finishing our flight plan. Airborne, I’d call in to Northway. This was Hagen’s kind of runway so as we taxied out, I handed control to him. He completed the run-up checks and with no traffic in sight, we lifted smoothly off the asphalt. Hagen set in a coordinated climbing turn while I raised Northway on the radio and relayed our flight plan.

  Hagen was a fair pilot. He had taken flying lessons years earlier, had soloed, but didn’t follow through to get a license. Occasional practice in my 150 enabled him to improve his skill as a pilot. This takeoff and long flight gave him a good opportunity for practice. I just let him get on with it.

  I was already glassing around at points of interest as Hagen leveled the plane at eight and a half thousand feet, cut back slowly on rpm to twenty one hundred, leaned the mixture, and trimmed the controls. There was no need for navigation, Hagen was flying visually straight for Mentasta Pass and then Gunsight Mountain which, still far away, was already visible.

  I unfolded the Sectional Aeronautical Chart and occupied myself with identifying various features of the terrain below. Sectionals have a scale of 1 to 500,000 and are produced with surprisingly good detail. I began to identify twists and turns in the rivers and the highway, the confluence of streams with other streams, and the relative position of lakes. By this method I could tell exactly where we were at any given time. For practice, I noted our time between points of reference and computed our ground speed. Although our indicated speed was one hundred four mph, our actual speed, relative to the ground, was only ninety four mph. This wasn’t significantly different to the eight mph head wind I used in my flight plan calculations, so there was no need to revise our plan. If the conditions remained steady, we would only be a few minutes late arriving at Wasilla.