The beauty you *really* earn: Wrangell-St. Elias, part II

Full view across the Nabesna Valley, from upper Trail Creek: a long, hard hike from the long, lonely road

If the first trip to Wrangell-St. Elias National Park & Preserve seemed ambitious, the second was downright mad. To return, two weeks later -- the same 8 or 9 hour drive, this time splitting north at Glennallen to take the Tok Cutoff, turning into the park and following the Nabesna Road as far as we could go, then shouldering packs and fording creeks up to a pass high in the Mentasta Mountains (an eastern extension of the Alaska Range), while the forecast called for torrential rains followed by snow.

But backpacking! In Wrangell-St. Elias! (13.2 million acres, did I mention the thirteen point two million nearly-roadless, almost-entirely-trailless acres to explore?) It was my final weekend in Alaska. A friend and I had already shuffled work schedules, chosen a route (based more on its scenic beauty and potential wildlife-spottings than a do-able distance and elevation gain), and packed our gear. Neither of us had gotten in as much backpacking as we would have liked over the summer, and backcountry Wrangell-St. Elias was probably more than either of us should have tackled alone (I write, as though I'd actually wised-up after Gates of the Arctic) but, together, we felt eager and invincible. A little thing like a cold front wasn't going to deter us.

We headed off in time to drive up the sweeping Matanuska Valley before the gathering dusk transitioned wholly to darkness and rain began to fall in earnest. Near midnight, we began looking for a place to pitch our tents, choosing a seemingly-nondescript pull-out somewhere around Gakona. Rain and more rain, wind.

Copper River, Mt. Sanford (16,237 ft.) and Mt. Drum (12,010 ft) in the distance

Then more of that Alaska magic, more of that unearned beauty: we woke to a view of the wide braids of the Copper River gleaming under a rain-cleansed, sun-bright sky, distant Mount Drum and Mount Sanford wrapped in residual clouds. The peaks accompanied us all the way to the park entrance. Buoyed by the break in the weather -- brisk temperatures but such unexpected sunshine! -- we practically danced into the Slana Ranger Station, only to be greeted with the news that the park had just suffered one of the worst rainstorms in recent memory; the Nabesna Road was washed out at mile 29 and the creeks were raging, perhaps impassable. No matter, we told the ranger, who looked skeptical but, to her credit, didn't try to dissuade us, We'll just see how far we get.

We didn't get far. Only a few miles down the road, I asked to pause for a photo -- snow-capped mountains rising above a spruce-studded bog, that miraculous blue sky overhead -- and stepped out of the car only to discover bushes dripping with fat, bright berries at my feet. What was meant to be a momentary stop turned into a half-hour feast as we grazed bear-like through blueberries and cranberries, noses dripping in the cold air, sun warm on our backs.

Still, Mt. Sanford, omnipresent

By the time we returned to the car and continued down the road, fingers stained and hearts full, it was near noon. Still, no sense of urgency. We listened, rapt, to the NPS's narrated audio tour of the road, laughing as we tried to match the CD tracks with the mileposts. We gaped, amazed, at the distant Wrangells and nearby Mentastas, scouring the slopes of the latter for sheep. My friend dodged puddles, I read names from the map, and then there we were: mile 29, the road crumbling into a drainage. A truck was already idling, a group of guys unloading ATVs from its trailer. We parked, got out, and went to contemplate the crossing. Narrow -- only a few feet wide -- but equally deep, impossible for any car to navigate. The murky brown water looked fierce, forceful enough to continue gouging out the road; forceful enough to sweep us off our feet if we tried crossing it? We'll just see how far we get.

We didn't get far. After parking the car and catching rides across the drainage (courtesy of the amused ATVers), we found ourselves facing what turned out to be the rest of Trail Creek: a swollen series of braids, bursting free of any original channels, obliterating the road and weaving out of sight. Rather than try to ford them, we turned upstream, following the sound of the ATV engines in an attempt to locate the trailhead, which the map told us was on the far side of the creek. (Which one?) We crashed through brush and squelched through mud, splashed back and forth across what seemed like the central braid, still looking for the elusive trail. I soon rolled up my pant legs and swapped my boots out for sandals, figuring my feet were going to get wet no matter what; better save the boots. A good choice: when we finally located the muddy, rutted ATV trail, the whole thing was filled with flowing water -- so much water! Freezing water, but warming air, that sunshine! Numb toes, still a light heart; a building sense of hilarity. Should we turn around?, one of us would occasionally ask in desultory attempts to be a voice of reason. No, let's just see how far we get.

Still flooded two days later, though the water had receded several inches

We didn't get far. The ATV trail periodically vanished; back to brush and mud. Trying to avoid the flooded lowlands -- how could there possibly be so much water? -- we scaled the riverbanks, only to be met with impenetrable vegetation, bogs, and, to our great delight and greater delay, patches of forest carpeted with more fresh berries. Again, we grazed and gorged, wholly aware that we weren't making any progress, but reveling in the experience. At one point, we popped out onto a gravel island, dropped our packs intending to grab a quick snack, and I actually fell asleep, sprawled out on a bed of sun-warmed, river-rounded rocks, lulled by the roar of raging water.

But then the temperature dropped. The sky filled with diaphanous clouds -- high, thin cirrus that set a halo around the sun and portended a shift in the weather. We consulted the map, only to realize that we'd barely made it two miles, at best. In three hours. We'd never make it up to the intended mountain pass and around to the neighboring drainage, Lost Creek. Who knows, Lost Creek might be even more flooded than this one. (The Slana ranger knew; she'd told us it would be worse.) Our feet were white with cold and bloody with scratches. Should we turn around? A little more hesitant, a little doubtful now: No, let's see how far we get.

One of the few walkable stretches: little brush, no running water. Even under the mildly improved conditions, hiking through brush in the Alaskan backcountry while wearing sandals and carrying a full pack is not ideal.

Same refrain: not far. Still trying to stay away from the flooded creek, we found ourselves stranded in a swamp, scrambling over downed trees and leaping over deep pools, wearing sandals and carrying full packs. More brush, more bogs. We fought our way up onto a high ridge and, from there, again tried to gauge our progress: how little ground we'd covered, how far we had left to go before even reaching the foothills of the Mentastas. Thicker clouds were rolling in, quickly snuffing the early evening light. Feeling cold and defeated, I put my boots back on, Let's get a bit farther.

Overlooking the Nabesna Valley

From there, we made a pointless detour up to an outcrop, just to see the spectacular view from its top: distant mountains, sweeping valley, thinning taiga, thicker clouds. We dropped down to the riverbed, only to re-discover the ATV trail and begin flying along, Mentastas nearing, tiny white dots of sheep scrambling along their slopes. Finally, worried about the increasing cold and imminent darkness, we chose a campsite on a gravel bar, exposed to bitter winds and in prime moose habitat, but the best we could do. As we ate dinner -- my friend waiting forever for his packaged kit to cook, me poking at tasteless leftovers -- the question arose again: Should we turn around?

Swallow. Consider. Shiver in the wind. Yes.

And, having conceded that the mountains and rivers and weather were too much for us -- that we would have to turn around, unable to do the loop we'd originally intended; that there was so much we wouldn't get to see -- the joy returned. Instead of feeling disappointed, a great weight lifted: there was no pressure, no need to do anything. This was our trip, this was wilderness-wandering. Unlike Gates of the Arctic, where I had to continue once I'd started, we had the freedom of going wherever we wanted, including back the way we'd come.

But first: Let's at least go see the pass.

Mt. Sanford, as seen from the foothills of the Mentasta mountains, thirty-odd miles away, as the raven flies

We woke to snow the next morning. Laughing at the absurdity of our misadventure -- snow, in August! -- we packed up and headed off, soon to discover a random signpost telling us that we'd reached the end of the ATV trail. (More laughter -- what ATV trail?) Up and up, valley narrowing into jagged mountains etched with white. Even though the grade was steeper, it felt like we were practically floating (carefully) across the soft mosses and sedges, rather than breaking through brush or sinking into bogs. We covered the previous day's distance in half the time and were within sight of the pass by early afternoon.

Nearing the pass

Nearer...

The pass, right there! Right around the corner!

There, the little demon of ambition (or obstinance) stirred in me: we were so close. If we pushed harder, we could make it all the way around, over the pass and down Lost Creek, fulfilling our original plan. True, that would be a much more challenging, riskier option: the maps told us Lost Creek passed through a tight gorge, already tough to navigate; what if it was totally flooded, truly impassable? What if we couldn't cross it, lower down? What if the brush that way was even worse? What if it started really snowing or, worse yet, sleeting? We were already in a somewhat inadvisable situation, having struggled to get this far; did we really have the strength and energy to make it the extra miles through wholly unknown terrain, with the weather deteriorating, rocks and bears and so much water?

Yes, my heart beat louder than my brain, Farther. If I'd been alone, I would have gone.

Even the pika knows it's a bad idea to go any farther. (Actually, it was just trying to blend in / pretending to be a rock.)

Yet another reason not to hike alone: someone needs to rein in my irrational dreams.

My friend asked to eat lunch, so I had to stop. We huddled into a dip in the tundra, slightly sheltered from the wind and whirling snow. While he waited for his food to cook, I stared longingly at the pass, surrounding peaks disappearing into and reappearing out of the snow.

Mountains, no mountains, mountains.

Pass, no pass, pass.

Instead of feeling annoyed, the longer I sat, the more I felt my ambition -- and, with it, anxiety -- melt away. I spotted more sheep, and watched them flow along impossible cliffs. I studied the shapes and colors of nearby outcrops, and mentally traced them into my sketchbook. I felt the biting wind and listened to the howling silence and thought about all the wild places in the world and my great privilege to see some of them.

No mountains

Mountains. And tundra. Glowing in brief sunshine.

No pass. If I wanted, I could have stayed sitting there forever, watching the mountains, no mountains, mountains in the snow, occasional glimpses of blue sky, fleeting moments of sunglow.

It was enough. We had earned the beauty.

And then there's the beauty you earn

On Root Glacier, looking toward Bonanza Ridge and Porphyry Peak
Wrangell-St. Elias National Park and Preserve, AK

13.2 million acres. Thirteen-point-two million acres. The largest unit managed by the National Park Service, equal to two Adirondack Parks, or six Yellowstones. Of those 13.2 million acres, 9 million acres of designated Wilderness. The country's largest wilderness area, big enough to swallow three each of Yosemite, Boundary Waters, and the Bob.

Superlatives continue: St. Elias, the fourth-highest mountain in North America, rising to 18,008 feet only ten miles away from the ocean. Bona, the highest volcano in the country and Wrangell, one of the most massive active volcanoes in the world. The continent's largest subpolar icefield (Bagley), longest valley and tidewater glaciers (Nabesna and Hubbard), and watershed that drains into two of the largest rivers (by discharge): the Yukon and the Copper.

Rock, ice, and water; tundra, forest, and wetland. Wolves and wolverines. Bears, both brown and black. Dall sheep, caribou, moose, marmot, pika. Ptarmigan, terns, golden and bald eagles. That 13.2 million acres of space through which they roam.

If there is such a thing as true wilderness left in the world -- an unfathomably large area, dominated by natural forces and inhabited by creatures that may live out their lives without ever encountering any sign of man -- it's here, in Wrangell-St. Elias National Park & Preserve.

Into this huge swath of mountains and rivers and ice cut two lonely roads, accessing merely the northwestern quarter of the park. Narrow ribbons of gravel and dirt, rutted and potholed, overgrown with shrubbery in some sections and overrun by hares in others. The roads are as wild as the terrain they try to breach: the 59-mile-long McCarthy Road gave my friend's Jeep a flat tire, and the 42-mile-long Nabesna Road was washed out at mile 30. "Driving the Nabesna Road can be an adventure," the NPS audio guide both warns and promises, "Have fun and take it slow. Soak it in. Pull over. Step out of your vehicle and take a deep breath of the Alaskan air. Drink in the beauty."

Beauty, indeed. But the sort of beauty you have to earn.

Wave of ice on Root Glacier

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The scenery in Chugach National Forest -- particularly, Portage Valley -- is undeniably spectacular. Awe-inspiring. Photogenic. Popular, and popular for a reason. I loved working there and am excited to return this summer -- to again step out the door into a world rich with mist and midnight sun. Bears, berries, salmon. Snow-capped peaks and that impossibly blue glacial ice. My packraft is eager to go bobbing back down Portage Creek, my XTRATUFs ready to splash along the Trail of Blue Ice. This summer, I promise myself, I'll camp out more; I'll get out on Prince William Sound; maybe I'll finally try bushwhacking up Byers or Begich. I'll continue to walk and walk and walk, 4 a.m. dawn until 12 a.m. dusk.

And I'll return to Wrangell-St. Elias.

Early evening shadows on Root Glacier and Donoho Peak

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It seemed like an ambitious plan, for my friend and I to squeeze in a trip to Kennecott over a long weekend last August. At least 8 hours of driving, each way (not accounting for the condition of the McCarthy Road), plus another hour or two to catch a shuttle down the 5 miles beyond the Kennecott River footbridge. A 2 mile hike to Root Glacier, lugging in all our water and supplies, hoping that a campsite would be free, that bears would stay away, and that the groups on the trail were just there for the day, leaving us with peace and quiet and an enormous confluence of ice and rock all to ourselves overnight. This dream in mind, we rearranged work schedules, ordered a set of crampons each, packed food, and watched as weather forecasts alternated between sun and rain.

The day came. We headed off after work: Anchorage, Palmer, the winding scenic drive down the Matanuska River valley (which, I realized, I'd longed to see seven years earlier, as I passed by en route to Denali). The Matanuska Glacier, glowing as the sky dimmed toward night. Glennallen and Copper Center in the dark, marveling at how long it took for the stars to appear. After turning into the park and catching a few hours' sleep, we woke groggily to the sight of the Copper and Chitina Rivers, gleaming silvery-bronze with pre-dawn light.

Silvery braids of the Chitina River

Wrangell-St. Elias! We were in Wrangell-St. Elias! As my friend navigated the road's potholes and hares, I promptly fell back asleep, occasionally opening my eyes to see dream-like scenes of distant mountains, spindly spruce, ducks paddling through mirror-calm ponds, and old railroad bridges soaring over narrow chasms. Then we were in McCarthy, streaming with sunshine; Kennecott, with its half-restored rickety red mine buildings clustering up a hillside; on the trail, realizing that the odd shapes far down the valley weren't weirdly-shadowed clouds, but the slopes of Mt. Blackburn, stretching 16,390 feet into the sky. First glimpses of Kennecott and Root Glaciers: the long, wide former piled with rocky debris (supraglacial moraines), but the latter -- a tributary -- shiny white before the confluence.

Somewhere between awake and dreaming, along McCarthy Road

Kennecott Mines National Historic Landmark, with Donoho Peak in the background

Trail alongside Kennecott Glacier (coated with lumps of glacial debris), with the white tongue of Root Glacier flowing in from the right. Donoho Peak straight ahead, Blackburn hiding far behind and high above it

A glacier! I'd managed to touch Portage earlier in the season, but had never actually set foot on much less wandered freely across the surface of a glacier before. While my friend chose to rest in the luxurious early-evening sunlight and the last of the day-hikers were departing, I dashed off to clamber and slide around the hard, smooth, blindingly-bright ice. Every new marvel set me giggling with delight: the scraping sound of the crampons, the crunch on softer surfaces; the striations and waves and supraglacial streams, how the whole mass appeared to move even as it stood grindingly still; the light, tilting farther into evening, filling the glacier and surrounding mountains with blue shadows. Blackburn, to the distant northwest, still wrapped in cloud, and, straight north, Stairway Icefall, a 6300-foot wall of broken ice. ("Stairway to Heaven Icefall", the USGS had proposed calling it in 1965. Whoever it was at the Board on Geographic Names that insisted on cutting the "to Heaven" part clearly never saw the feature in person.)

All that space and wildness, well worth the effort it had taken to get there.

Stairway [to Heaven] Icefall, churning into Root Glacier. Regal Mountain (13,845 ft) up there somewhere, tucked behind numerous 11,000-12,000 ft. prominences, unnamed on the map

I woke early the next morning and headed off to traverse a "trail" along the slopes above Root Glacier, following it until it disappeared on a narrow, steep-sided lateral moraine, which happened to coincide with the place where a bear was ambling down the mountainside toward me. Returning to our campsite, I met my friend and we headed out onto the glacier, which was even brighter in the midday sunshine. Again, it was all giggles, all delight, doubly so with two of us to see and celebrate the marvels. A waterfall! A crevasse! Seracs smoothed by sinuous streams, slot canyons between walls of ice. What looked like a flat white surface from a distance was in fact a wonderland of shapes, textures, and colors. A playground, for us and for the dozens of day-visitors, who were, by mid-afternoon, tromping along behind guides, seeking scenic meltpools and scaling icy cliffs. Plenty of space and wildness for us all to enjoy.

Crevasse, Root Glacier

When I returned to the glacier again after dinner, 8 or 9 p.m. -- the light quiet and the shadows deep, the world empty -- I had that space and wildness all to myself. After scaling the by-then familiar access point, I meandered vaguely north and west, both lured onward and constrained by the topography of the ice. By that point, I was done giggling at every new experience and on to simply marveling -- the power, the grace, the scale of this geologic force; the sheer beauty of this place. As the sun dipped low and the sky flared with blues, violets, and pinks, I stood by the edge of a meltpool and watched the ice change colors, too -- blues, violets, and pinks, not just reflected from overhead, but absorbed and re-emitted with a cold, glacial glint. The colors lingered well into twilight, as did I.

Not the sort of beauty that shows up in a photo. Not the sort of beauty that can be seen via tourboat or tourbus, nor felt on a short walk. The sort of beauty you earn.

Last of the sunlight, snagging on and in the ice

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And that's just the first of my adventures in Wrangell-St. Elias. More to come, 13.1999 million acres left to explore...