Gold in Trib 1 Read online

  We pushed our way through the dusty shrubbery and soon found ourselves in a partially overgrown clearing a hundred yards across and surrounded by large trees. It must, at once, have been the staging point for the mining company that carved the seventy-five-mile trail into the wilderness. Powerful Caterpillar tractors typically followed each other in what was known as a Cat Train with each Cat hauling sleds of heavy equipment for exploratory drilling. No one seemed to know what they discovered. There wasn’t a big operation out there now.

  Before exploring any further, we needed to get our own vehicle off the road and out of sight. It was important at this stage not to draw attention to our presence. I walked back to the Chevy and drove it down to the trail entrance. With Hagen directing, I eased the vehicle over the berm and through the bushes into the clearing. We both then set about carefully rearranging the gravel berm to obliterate any tire tracks. Not a moment too soon, we ducked back into the bushes as a vehicle rattled from the direction of Chicken. It passed by at fifty miles an hour and left us choking in a cloud of fine talcum-like dust. The dust rooster-tailed from the vehicle and settled over us. We both let out a favorite expletive and Hagen commented: “That’s civilization for you.” We dusted ourselves off and headed for the Chevy.

  Now we had to find out how far we could drive in along the trail to stash the vehicle. We already knew it couldn’t be too far. First there was a low swampy area and then a very steep climb which would be a challenge to anything but an all-terrain vehicle.

  We were first struck with size of the trees. They were much larger than we expected and they had more of a Christmas tree shape, unlike most of the trees this far north. They would form an excellent cover for the Chevy.

  We took our rifles and walked down the trail to scout. The further we went, the more soggy it was. After a couple a hundred yards, apparently we would take a big risk bringing the vehicle even this far along the trail. Ahead the area looked more like a pond than anything else and several acres on each side were spongy bog. It would be difficult to traverse on foot and impossible to drive over.

  Well that settled that. We looked for a place to hide the vehicle without leaving much of a trail. That meant staying on higher, drier ground near the trail entrance.

  We retraced our steps up and checked out an area on the north side of the clearing. Finally we agreed on a place fifty yards from the trail head. It was well hidden from the highway, and from the trail. Our camouflaged vehicle would be invisible from the air under the wide spread tree branches.

  I drove the Chevy to the edge of the clearing. With Hagen guiding me to make sure I didn’t flatten anything or hang up on a boulder, I eased the Blazer between the trees. Finally Hagen guided me under the wide spread branches of a tree and I stopped the vehicle and switched off the engine.

  Satisfied with the location, we hauled all of our gear out and went to change into hiking clothes. We left our travel clothes neatly inside the vehicle ready for our return. I had decided to wear corduroy pants, a tee shirt, long sleeved wool shirt, socks, and hiking boots. I donned my strong leather belt with its various pouches. My down filled vest was tucked conveniently into the top of my backpack.

  Hagen favored blue jeans, wool shirt, and his short Levi jacket along with socks and well used hiking boots. He also had leather belt to which he attached a black leather sheath which held a large Bowie-type knife. He tended to use this mean looking weapon for all sorts of things including spreading squeeze cheese on his rye bread at meal times.

  When we were dressed, we covered the Chevy with tarps and camouflage net. By the time we finished it looked more like a lump of rock than a product of General Motors. A couple of days and the grass and shrubs would spring back up and the vehicles’ location would be secret from all but ourselves.

  We wrapped our keys, and wallets in a zip-lock bag and buried them just by the base of a nearby tree. They too, would be safe. We had no use for driving license, money or credit cards where we were going.

  With a lot of grunting and groaning, we hefted the heavy packs onto our backs and picked up our rifles. We were ready to hit the trail and start our most challenging hike.

  Chapter 10

  Up to the Ridge

  Ten minutes on the trail, we got into trouble. It was a good thing we didn’t try to drive the Chevy through the wet area. It turned out to be much more swampy than we thought.

  We tried to stay close to the original trail, but it was just too flooded. We back tracked a little way and went to the left, but we were on hummocks of marsh grass floating in water. Obviously, we were not going to get through easily.

  We boldly took our pants off and, looking quite comical, walked through the water-filled tracks of the trail itself. The clean water with underlying mud, was preferable to cloying muck. A hundred yards of wet area and the deepest puddles came to our knees. We sloshed along snorting at our funny remarks and made it to where the water gave way to higher ground and walking was easier.

  This was the starting point for the North Fork of the Ladue River. The area we passed through was the fringe of a catch-basin for runoff from the surrounding hills. Recent rain would have left the area more flooded than usual and we must have caught it at a bad time

  Thankfully, as the trail heaved itself clear of the swamp, the ground became dry again. The trees were larger, well established, and anchored in firm ground.

  We lowered our back packs to the ground, cleaned ourselves up and got dressed. It was a messy start to the hike. We were fortunate the only damage was wet socks and boots. We managed to get through without losing our footing and dumping ourselves and our packs in the water—a disastrous beginning. We dried the insides of our boots, rung the water from our socks and then delved into the side pockets of our packs for dry socks. They say: “Great minds think alike.” We both produced socks enclosed neatly in ziplog plastic bags.

  It took us twenty minutes to get ready to set off up the steep trail. We began to see visible evidence of caterpillar-tracked machinery employed in trail breaking. Here and there, large boulders were displaced to one side or the other. In one place, a huge rock had gouged a furrow of several yards before rolling to one side. The rock was easily two cubic yards in size.

  The cat train had obviously picked its way between the larger trees and followed a gentle slope. However, tree trunks six inches in diameter had been pushed over and crushed into the dirt. Some timbers were still visible and sound in spite of the years. In Alaska, the cold preserves timber and there are fewer wood devouring insects, prevalent in other climates. Deep scars on the land and vegetation, made by the cat train, would remain for many, many years.

  It was a steep climb and with our packs at their heaviest we were both being severely tested. Hagen, of course, was ahead and setting the pace while I brought up the rear. I could tell he was struggling too. We just had to take a break now and then to catch our breath and give our aching legs a rest.

  The first rise topped out at three thousand eight hundred feet, according to our map. The trail, however, followed a long extension of the ridge and along many terraces. The cat train operators, had taken every advantage and had gone from terrace to terrace but resorted to winching sleds up steeper sections.

  We were surprised at the lush foliage. A rich variety of trees and shrubs pressed in on the trail from each side. There were patches of silver birch, aspen, northern larch, spruce, and poplar. We noticed this great diversity from the air and saw something of a pattern. Usually, it resulted from forest fires. One species of tree was wiped out and cleared the way for another to gain predominance. The changing elevation played a role too. Spruce and larch at higher levels, silver birch and aspen at lower levels. Slopes with southern exposures developed different growths than northern facing slopes. Where there were no large trees, dwarf willows, or alders, formed a tangled barrier. The trail was partially overgrown in places and tough, wiry, knee-high shrubs snagged our legs as we walked. A touch of brilliant color, added by the ta
ll red fireweed, stood among patches of small wild flowers and wild roses. We were fortunate to have the trail to follow even if it was showing signs of returning to nature.

  Hagen and I staggered under the weight of our heavy loads. During a frequent break, I said, “I don’t think we can make it to the crest of that ridge before night.”

  “There is nothing to stop us from making camp right here.” Hagen wiped his face. “I prefer to be above the tree line away from mosquitoes, thousands of mosquitos.”

  We pressed on, took short breaks, and followed steeper sections. We took little comfort in knowing this was probably the hardest part of the hike. I groaned, “My pack is so heavy. We must not have limbered up that last hike.”

  “What about all that dancing at the Pines? Didn’t it help?” Hagen offered.

  As we climbed progressively higher, we gained a better view of our surroundings. We could see the Taylor Highway wending its way north. Mt. Fairplay rose above the surrounding ridges. Immediately to the north of our ridge, a wide green valley formed the drainage for the West Fork of the Dennison River. To the south, lay the North Fork of the Ladue River. Over a low ridge, lay Tetlin Flats reaching to the Alaska Range.

  The sun was slanted toward the horizon and we realized we’d have to call a halt soon. We didn’t want to set up camp too late. Ahead we could see the trees thinning so we decided we would hike just a little further and then make camp, no matter what.

  Our legs seized up after every short rest but we gritted our teeth and staggered on for about thirty minutes. Unanimously we decided enough was enough. We reached a small terrace in the long slope and were just above most of the trees. The trail climbed on ahead through lower growth with only occasional stunted trees in sight.

  “This is what we’ve been looking for.” Hagen said as he struggled out of his pack. “At last, a place to camp above the mosquitos. And look at the view.”

  I sat on my pack and replied, “We didn’t run into bears hiking, so maybe we won’t, camping in the open.” I suppose we still felt there could be a bear behind every tree or around each bend in the trail.

  Scouting around, we found a level grassy patch just south of the trail. It was perfect for our camp. Scavenging around the immediate area, we brought together firewood for the evening and next morning. Hagen circled some small stones and I started a neat little fire within the circle.

  The light was fading and as the sun went down, the northwest sky turned a bright orange, striped with shades of red and brown. We were bathed in an orange glow while the valleys below were in shadowy grays. At this time of the year, and at this latitude, it wouldn’t get completely dark. The eerie twilight would remain until the sun rose again very early in the morning.

  A couple of years earlier, Hagen cut and assembled some light weight stainless steel tubing, formed it into a four-legged frame for hanging a kettle. The lengths of rods were held together at the ends by rings. I quickly named it the Quadrapod and the name stuck.

  We now suspended a kettle of water from the Quadrapod and while it was heating, we laid out our ground sheets and sleeping bags. It felt cool now. We had ceased our strenuous activity so we felt a need to slip on our down vests. Our boots were still damp from the soaking in the swamp so we hung them on tripods of willow branches and put on our running shoes—instant relief.

  The water was boiling so we threw loose tea straight into the kettle, set it aside to brew for a couple of minutes, and stoked the fire with larger pieces of wood. Then we settled back to snack on squeeze cheese and crackers. They washed down well with hot, sweet, tea.

  The twilight deepened and stars shimmered in the clear night sky. Except for the crackling and popping of our fire, there was absolute silence here on our ridge.

  It was eleven o’clock by the time we were ready to turn in with the back packs close by and our rifles placed handily. We snuggled into our sleeping bags, naked except for our shorts and tee shirts. We talked as warmth crept through our bodies and our muscles relaxed. Eventually we drifted into silence and into our own dreams. The untended fire sputtered and died. A complete calm fell over our remote campsite.

  Chapter 11

  Day One on the Trail

  When we awoke the next morning, valleys below were shrouded with thin layers of mist. Our ridge rose in clear air. Everything, including our sleeping bags, was damp with heavy dew, and the air was nippy. We draped ground sheets over bushes and laid the sleeping bags on them so the air could circulate around. Hopefully, they would dry by the time we had to roll them up and start hiking.

  We started a small fire in the hearth and freshened up before preparing breakfast. Hagen found a patch of beautiful, juicy, blueberries nearby. We picked a few and I added them to my bowl of breakfast cereal. Hagen, rummaged around in his conglomeration of rye bread, cheese spread, and trail-mix and added the blueberries. The instant coffee tasted great, as did most foods, out in the open air.

  Breakfast finished, we packed our gear, and damp sleeping bags, made sure the fire was extinguished, checked our rifles, and resumed our climb up the trail. The ground was firm and the clearly defined trail was fringed with low growth.

  We progressed upward for half an hour before we came to a steep slope of loose shale and rocks. The tracks left by the cat train were clearly visible a hundred and fifty feet or so directly up the slope. It was going to be a tough one for us to climb. With a lot of cursing, straining, scrabbling for foot holds, we dragged ourselves upward under the weight of our backpacks. Gasping for breath, we hauled our shaking bodies onto the bald, flat top of the ridge.

  We had walked almost three and half miles and climbed two thousand feet since we left the Chevy. Our map showed this first unnamed high point was three thousand eight hundred and six feet elevation.

  What a wonderful view. The mist was burning off in the valleys below and we had a clear view to the south, west, and north. To the east our view was limited to a few miles but only by Mt. Son. Our hike would take us over Mt. Son. We had a new perspective of the trail ahead. Just because we were up on the ridge didn’t mean it was going to be easy all the way. We could now see the trail dropping about five hundred feet before wending its way to Mt. Son’s top. It was a dimension of the trail that wasn’t clear, even from the aircraft during our scouting flights.

  With such a good view of the trail ahead we used the binoculars to scan every yard. From this spot, the tops of the ridges looked dusted with white lime. It was the white of the Caribou moss on our hiking trail. This tiny plant, with its white coral-like leaves, grew tenaciously on the high, dry, tundra surfaces. They prospered where life was too tough for larger plants.

  For a short distance, the trail dropped gradually into the trees. Walking along the ridge, we probably wouldn’t run into swamp like the ones we first encountered. The ground fell off quite abruptly on both sides.

  After a short breather, we pushed on along the trail toward the saddle. The slope was gentle on this eastern flank and walking was the easiest we had experienced thus far. The surface was covered with tough wiry mountain heather. A low growth of blueberry and alpine bearberry, sported crimson leaves. The tracks of the Caterpillar tractors and runners of the heavily laden sleds had left long gouges in the surface and caused severe erosion. We had to be careful where we placed our feet. We didn’t need twisted ankles. We’d have a real problem walking out again.

  The sun was well up now and a little breeze blew from the southwest. It was time for sun block on our faces or we’d be peeling by tomorrow. The tube was handily in a side pocket of my pack so Hagen accessed it without me putting down my pack. Hagen and I both got sunburned easily, yet tanned well after the initial exposure. Suitably protected, we continued our way.

  After the down hill stretch, the trail roller-coasted gently for a couple of miles but not enough to make it hard work. It was a bit soft for a few hundred yards, at the lowest point, but not really wet. We were surprised again to find large straight trees. Some of them were ab
out eighteen inches thick at the base and they were fifty to sixty feet tall. We were used to seeing skinny arctic black spruce everywhere. These larger conifers made us feel humble.

  We were a bit tense among the trees because of limited visibility. This was new territory. We were further from civilization, and these realities worked on our minds and told us it just had to be bear country. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. We saw no sign of bears, but we took no chances and carried our rifles at the ready across our chests. We hoped we’d never have to use them.

  About mid-morning we called a halt. We were just beginning to climb up the western flank of Mt. Son and it was already much steeper than we had anticipated. We didn’t go to the bother of making a fire, but settled for a drink of Koolaid. A granola bar and some dried fruit filled the need for a snack.

  It was a relief to put our rifles down, shuck off the backpack, and flex our tired shoulders. Thinking ahead, we spread our damp sleeping bags out over the shrubs to further dry. I was having problems with a couple of pressure points in my boots and if I wasn’t careful, I would have to deal with blisters. During the break I changed my socks, hoping it might improve things. I found in the past that it made a big difference. Even a little wrinkle in a sweaty sock could be irritating enough to promote blistering.

  Twenty-five yards south, the trail passed an outcrop of rock looking out toward the west. We were spellbound. The view over the west fork of Ladue was magnificent. The valley was beautiful and green. Trees hugged the serpentine river. Mature tamarack and spruce trees grew further back where land was better able to drain. The rest of the valley looked decidedly soggy and we knew it would be impossible to walk on except in the winter when it was frozen.