Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
Verstovia Summit
Aaron, Emily, and I attempted to summit Mt. Verstovia (pictured above) this weekend. It involved some very technical maneuvering and ice-climbing. We inevitably did not make it to the top because of high avalanche danger at the summit (we turned around with about 200 ft. to go). It was a gorgeous day; blue sky as far as the eye could see with temps in the upper 20's. I got my sun exposure for the month. It was an amazing trip. Here are a few pics from the climb.
Friday, February 20, 2009
life and pictures of it
Well, let's see.
It's been quite the week. Sunday I had a run in with two grizzly; my heart skipped a beat or two during that encounter for sure. A couple of days I subbed. I had wonderful pasta about everyday (along with venison and fish, it's sort of what I eat up here). Bluegrass was the music of choice - as usual. It was sunny two days, a February record I think. I re-registered for Appalachian; yep, I am going back. Went down to the docks yesterday and took some pictures, I hope you enjoy them. Y'all down south take it easy now, ya hear?
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Bear Mountain
Walking across frozen Beaver Lake
Taking a breather
Nearing cloud level
Closing in on the summit
Silver Bay, Sitka Sound, and the Pacific OceanSaturday, February 14, 2009
Photography
Sealing Cove harbor; where we put in
Crossing Sitka Sound
Edgecumbe, in it's afternoon glory
Breaking trail
The "alpine glow"
Half way up, tired as all get-out
Sunset
The survival shelter
Our landing beachEdgecumbe
There was a loud thud and a sharp crack as the boat was lowered off the trailer into the ice covered harbor. My breath entered the morning air like appalachian fog; thick and moist. It was around 25 degrees. I grabbed one of the oars and began to drive it's head over and over again through the frozen mass surrounding the Cattywampus. Brian muttered something about once the engine was running the boat would break through just fine. Shari just stood on the dock smiling, her cheeks bright red from the cold; a cup of steaming coffee cuddled tightly inside her small palms. We piled our packs and survival gear into the skiff, and, after a few more swings at the ice with the oar, pushed off and were on our way. It was 8:47 am.
Breaking through the ice ended up not being all that difficult; but, the 1000 feet of frozen harbor certainly made for an interesting beginning to our expedition. We were heading for Kruzof Island; a body of land across the sound from Sitka. Filled with grizzly bear, black tail deer, and bald eagle, Kruzof is also the home of Mt. Edgecumbe; a dormant volcano that dominates the western skyline and looms large over the entire region. When I first arrived in Sitka I became enthralled with the mountain and made it a goal to reach it's summit. Sometime last week Brian suggested that we scale it's south ridge and snowboard down it's eastern face. I was all in. After an unsuccessful attempt on Sunday, we decided to bring along one of Brian's friends, a girl named Shari, who, presumably, new the route up the mountain and where the survival shelter was located. Shari heartily agreed to make the trek with us, stating that "it was one of her life goals to ski down Edgecumbe". So, here we all were, crossing the Sitka Sound on a cold, clear, Thursday morning, embarking on quite possibly the greatest adventure of our lives.
The sky was Carolina blue. The water was glassy and calm. The air was cold and crisp. We made it across the sound to Kruzof in about an hour, beached the Cattywampus, and proceeded to push it about 100 ft up into the snow. After a quick snackaroo and drink of icy water, we headed into the woods. It is 7 miles from our landing shore to the summit of Edgecumbe. Easy right? Not so much. On the beach there was a foot of snow, at mile 3 there was 4 ft, and by the actual base of the mountain there was 7 ft of snow; with drifts exceeding 12 ft. If you have ever tried to maneuver through that much snow then you know that it's no easy task. A half mile in I was already drenched in sweat; I was sinking up to my knees with every step. It was at this point that Brian looked back at me and uttered "snowshoe time". I grunted like a disgruntled moose, thinking that "snowshoe time" should have been the moment we got off the boat. Oh well, at least I learned what it felt like to move 100 yards in a half hour (it was depressing), drowning in snow with every step. Brian and I strapped on our snowshoes and Shari her cross-country skies, and we continued to break trail. Now that hunting season was over, no one had probably even been on the island of Kruzof in weeks, and certainly (according to the Sitka Rec. Dept.) no one had been up Mt. Edgecumbe this entire winter. We were moving through virgin snow and territory that hadn't been touched by humans in months, possibly years. There weren't even animal footprints in the snow, all life was in hibernation. It was desolate; for 30 miles in every direction we were alone.
Being alone is sometimes nice though. It was just us, the trees, the snow, and the mountain. The entire trek was, though exhausting, very peaceful. We didn't talk much, but instead focused on the summit ahead, which moved closer and closer with every step. Because most of Kruzof was at one time a giant ash and lava field there aren't many forests on it. The majority of the island is comprised of muskeg; wet, marshy, fields of moss and low lying shrubs. This time of year, of course, the muskeg are covered in several feet of snow, but, I'm told that they are pretty neat during the summer months. We continued to trudge through the snow, in and out of muskeg after muskeg; finally arriving at the forest service survival shelter; 3 miles from the summit. After dropping the majority of our gear at the shelter, we plowed on toward Edgecumbe. It was 2:45 pm.
Because the sky was clear the temperature stayed around 25 degrees; which was great for moving through the snow. This all changed once we began the actual climb up the mountain. There is about a 1500 ft climb in elevation from the beach to mile 6.5, which, is a nice steady increase, but nothing too bad. The last half mile of the trek gains over 2000 ft - allowing for over a brutally steep grade. Darkness began to set in and with every step the temperature plummeted. We continued up the steep slope, stopping every 50 ft or so just to catch our breath. If any one of us had offered a convincing excuse to head back to the shelter, we would have all heartily agreed. But, thankfully, we are all just a little too stubborn to let pain get the best of us, so, we pressed on.
The sun was sinking over the horizon, and as it did, a red alpine glow was cast against the snow and on the peaks in the distance. It was one of the more beautiful scenes I have ever witnessed. We reached the summit at 5:30 pm, just as the last glimpse of sunshine disappeared in the distance. We stayed there for about 15 minutes; observing the jaw dropping majesty of the mountain and Alaska. The crater at the summit proved to be over 1000 ft deep and nearly a mile in diameter. The whole experience being on top of the mountain was awe-inspiring. It was cold though; -15 degrees at the summit. So, after layering up in all the clothing I had with me, I unhooked my snowboard from my pack, and strapped my boots into the board's bindings. It was pitch dark now. The only light was from the stars, which, because of the lack of light pollution, came out immediately. We commenced down the slope; Brian and Shari on their skies and me on my board. I led the way, cutting and carving through the powder, down the steep slope. After about 15 minutes of riding we dropped down into a lava shoot and road for another 20 minutes; out of the alpine and through the trees. Finally, after nearly 40 minutes of continuous, joyous riding, we unstrapped and trudged another 1.5 miles to the shelter. It was, by far, the longest continuous ride on a snowboard I have ever experienced. The fresh, deep powder was a delight to carve through; it was pure. There were times when I was riding and the snow was up to my knees, but, since it was powder on top of powder, it didn't slow me down a bit. Unless I (and other people that actually know these things) am mistaken, we were the first people to ski or snowboard Edgecumbe at night, ever.
That night we arrived back at the shelter around 8:15. And, after a hearty dinner of halibut, sausage, and curried-rice we sank into our sleeping bags and fell asleep. It was a cold night for sure, as the temperature hovered around zero all night long. I got minor frostbite on one of my toes and on the tips of 2 of my fingers; but, all is well, as it should heal up pretty good after a couple of weeks. The next day, after oatmeal and tea, we set off for home. It was a little sad, as we marched back through our tracks and Edgecumbe sank smaller and smaller behind us, it had been a really amazing trip and I didn't want to see it end. We arrived at the beach, loaded up the Cattywampus, and set off for town. I walked into my house that afternoon around 3:00, unpacked, and took a long, hot shower. Man did that shower feel good.
Breaking through the ice ended up not being all that difficult; but, the 1000 feet of frozen harbor certainly made for an interesting beginning to our expedition. We were heading for Kruzof Island; a body of land across the sound from Sitka. Filled with grizzly bear, black tail deer, and bald eagle, Kruzof is also the home of Mt. Edgecumbe; a dormant volcano that dominates the western skyline and looms large over the entire region. When I first arrived in Sitka I became enthralled with the mountain and made it a goal to reach it's summit. Sometime last week Brian suggested that we scale it's south ridge and snowboard down it's eastern face. I was all in. After an unsuccessful attempt on Sunday, we decided to bring along one of Brian's friends, a girl named Shari, who, presumably, new the route up the mountain and where the survival shelter was located. Shari heartily agreed to make the trek with us, stating that "it was one of her life goals to ski down Edgecumbe". So, here we all were, crossing the Sitka Sound on a cold, clear, Thursday morning, embarking on quite possibly the greatest adventure of our lives.
The sky was Carolina blue. The water was glassy and calm. The air was cold and crisp. We made it across the sound to Kruzof in about an hour, beached the Cattywampus, and proceeded to push it about 100 ft up into the snow. After a quick snackaroo and drink of icy water, we headed into the woods. It is 7 miles from our landing shore to the summit of Edgecumbe. Easy right? Not so much. On the beach there was a foot of snow, at mile 3 there was 4 ft, and by the actual base of the mountain there was 7 ft of snow; with drifts exceeding 12 ft. If you have ever tried to maneuver through that much snow then you know that it's no easy task. A half mile in I was already drenched in sweat; I was sinking up to my knees with every step. It was at this point that Brian looked back at me and uttered "snowshoe time". I grunted like a disgruntled moose, thinking that "snowshoe time" should have been the moment we got off the boat. Oh well, at least I learned what it felt like to move 100 yards in a half hour (it was depressing), drowning in snow with every step. Brian and I strapped on our snowshoes and Shari her cross-country skies, and we continued to break trail. Now that hunting season was over, no one had probably even been on the island of Kruzof in weeks, and certainly (according to the Sitka Rec. Dept.) no one had been up Mt. Edgecumbe this entire winter. We were moving through virgin snow and territory that hadn't been touched by humans in months, possibly years. There weren't even animal footprints in the snow, all life was in hibernation. It was desolate; for 30 miles in every direction we were alone.
Being alone is sometimes nice though. It was just us, the trees, the snow, and the mountain. The entire trek was, though exhausting, very peaceful. We didn't talk much, but instead focused on the summit ahead, which moved closer and closer with every step. Because most of Kruzof was at one time a giant ash and lava field there aren't many forests on it. The majority of the island is comprised of muskeg; wet, marshy, fields of moss and low lying shrubs. This time of year, of course, the muskeg are covered in several feet of snow, but, I'm told that they are pretty neat during the summer months. We continued to trudge through the snow, in and out of muskeg after muskeg; finally arriving at the forest service survival shelter; 3 miles from the summit. After dropping the majority of our gear at the shelter, we plowed on toward Edgecumbe. It was 2:45 pm.
Because the sky was clear the temperature stayed around 25 degrees; which was great for moving through the snow. This all changed once we began the actual climb up the mountain. There is about a 1500 ft climb in elevation from the beach to mile 6.5, which, is a nice steady increase, but nothing too bad. The last half mile of the trek gains over 2000 ft - allowing for over a brutally steep grade. Darkness began to set in and with every step the temperature plummeted. We continued up the steep slope, stopping every 50 ft or so just to catch our breath. If any one of us had offered a convincing excuse to head back to the shelter, we would have all heartily agreed. But, thankfully, we are all just a little too stubborn to let pain get the best of us, so, we pressed on.
The sun was sinking over the horizon, and as it did, a red alpine glow was cast against the snow and on the peaks in the distance. It was one of the more beautiful scenes I have ever witnessed. We reached the summit at 5:30 pm, just as the last glimpse of sunshine disappeared in the distance. We stayed there for about 15 minutes; observing the jaw dropping majesty of the mountain and Alaska. The crater at the summit proved to be over 1000 ft deep and nearly a mile in diameter. The whole experience being on top of the mountain was awe-inspiring. It was cold though; -15 degrees at the summit. So, after layering up in all the clothing I had with me, I unhooked my snowboard from my pack, and strapped my boots into the board's bindings. It was pitch dark now. The only light was from the stars, which, because of the lack of light pollution, came out immediately. We commenced down the slope; Brian and Shari on their skies and me on my board. I led the way, cutting and carving through the powder, down the steep slope. After about 15 minutes of riding we dropped down into a lava shoot and road for another 20 minutes; out of the alpine and through the trees. Finally, after nearly 40 minutes of continuous, joyous riding, we unstrapped and trudged another 1.5 miles to the shelter. It was, by far, the longest continuous ride on a snowboard I have ever experienced. The fresh, deep powder was a delight to carve through; it was pure. There were times when I was riding and the snow was up to my knees, but, since it was powder on top of powder, it didn't slow me down a bit. Unless I (and other people that actually know these things) am mistaken, we were the first people to ski or snowboard Edgecumbe at night, ever.
That night we arrived back at the shelter around 8:15. And, after a hearty dinner of halibut, sausage, and curried-rice we sank into our sleeping bags and fell asleep. It was a cold night for sure, as the temperature hovered around zero all night long. I got minor frostbite on one of my toes and on the tips of 2 of my fingers; but, all is well, as it should heal up pretty good after a couple of weeks. The next day, after oatmeal and tea, we set off for home. It was a little sad, as we marched back through our tracks and Edgecumbe sank smaller and smaller behind us, it had been a really amazing trip and I didn't want to see it end. We arrived at the beach, loaded up the Cattywampus, and set off for town. I walked into my house that afternoon around 3:00, unpacked, and took a long, hot shower. Man did that shower feel good.
Friday, February 6, 2009
11 Days
That's right. 11 days.
That's how much time passed during the sun's most recent departure from Sitka. I got really excited when I walked out of my bedroom yesteday, and was met by the an intense glare pouring through our eastern most windows. It was almost as if I could feel my body being recharged with vitamin B and everything else the sun provides. Kyle was standing at the window, facing that big, beautiful, fiery ball, with his eyes closed and his arms spread wide. I probably would have thought he was a little "off his nut" when I first got here, but now that I have been in southeast Alaska for 24 (crazy huh?) days, I totally understand. I continued into the kitchen, grabbed a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats, and proceeded to go stand right next to him at the window. We had to have stood there for 30 minutes.
In other news...
This week I have worked a few days with youngsters as a substitute teacher. Gone on several hikes. Stared down a black-tail deer for around a half-hour (it finally got bored of me hootin' at it, and walked away). Read a bunch of literature. Planned, in detail, how I am going to track a grizzly, and then, proceed to wrestle it. Helped out with Young-Life. Eaten a lot of delicious grub (and some less-than-mediocre grub). Gotten really wet while riding my bike. Seen massive amounts of snow fall. And, actually have the opportunity to watch Clemson beast(!) Duke.
It's been a good week. Tomorrow is David's 26th birthday, so, I think we are going to celebrate it in some fashion or another. Also, in response to the question of whether or not I am going to grow a real "Alaskan" beard; that, y'all, is totally up to my hair. I hope so though, I sure hope so...
Here is the link to a Cargill commercial that is about Sitka (note: 2 of my 3 rommates are in the commercial!), it's pretty cool stuff.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZKmHlI2lHo
That's how much time passed during the sun's most recent departure from Sitka. I got really excited when I walked out of my bedroom yesteday, and was met by the an intense glare pouring through our eastern most windows. It was almost as if I could feel my body being recharged with vitamin B and everything else the sun provides. Kyle was standing at the window, facing that big, beautiful, fiery ball, with his eyes closed and his arms spread wide. I probably would have thought he was a little "off his nut" when I first got here, but now that I have been in southeast Alaska for 24 (crazy huh?) days, I totally understand. I continued into the kitchen, grabbed a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats, and proceeded to go stand right next to him at the window. We had to have stood there for 30 minutes.
In other news...
This week I have worked a few days with youngsters as a substitute teacher. Gone on several hikes. Stared down a black-tail deer for around a half-hour (it finally got bored of me hootin' at it, and walked away). Read a bunch of literature. Planned, in detail, how I am going to track a grizzly, and then, proceed to wrestle it. Helped out with Young-Life. Eaten a lot of delicious grub (and some less-than-mediocre grub). Gotten really wet while riding my bike. Seen massive amounts of snow fall. And, actually have the opportunity to watch Clemson beast(!) Duke.
It's been a good week. Tomorrow is David's 26th birthday, so, I think we are going to celebrate it in some fashion or another. Also, in response to the question of whether or not I am going to grow a real "Alaskan" beard; that, y'all, is totally up to my hair. I hope so though, I sure hope so...
Here is the link to a Cargill commercial that is about Sitka (note: 2 of my 3 rommates are in the commercial!), it's pretty cool stuff.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZKmHlI2lHo
Home Sweet Home
The house
The living room (notice the Alaska state flag)
The kitchen
The closet (also, my bedroom)Monday, February 2, 2009
Pictures from Saturday
Setting off in the Cattywampus
Cold
Patrick(this is what we all looked like by the end)
Deep into Silver Bay
The amount of snowfall we faced(zoom in to get a clear view of what I'm talking
about, the picture is of the river bank, 25 feet away)
Sunday, February 1, 2009
15 Rounds
What do we think of when we think about Alaska? What descriptions best fit our perceptions? Things like snow, ice, mountains, bears, and wilderness probably jump to mind (and for Republicans - Sarah Palin). Images of power, of danger, of freedom - they define what it means to be untamed and be without limitations. Even Alaska's official state nickname, The Last Frontier, feeds into this idea. Coming from North Carolina - the state which as sure as the sun shines has a firm grasp on my heart, the very state in which I hope to live and die in - this label was going to be a tall order for Alaska to live up to. Well folks; yesterday, it did.
I woke up Saturday morning to the sight of snow pouring down outside. I do not wish to minimize the amount of snow coming down; it was, in fact, more snow falling from the sky than I have ever seen before. Most people, when there is a blizzard outside, stay indoors. They put on a warm, fuzzy sweater, brew a hot cup of tea, and immerse themselves in a good book. Sitting around the dining room table, snarfin’ down chocolate chip pancake after chocolate chip pancake and Patrick’s famous “George W. Bush” special (a mix of chili, cheese, and grits; delicious), us boys were in no mind to let an adventure slip by because of few a snowflakes. We discussed for a good long while where we should head off to, with suggestion after suggestion shot down because of this reason or that. We stayed stumped until David (3rd roommate; 26, about my height, scruffy beard, intern with Young Life) spouted out that today was the last day of deer season and he had yet to tag his winter deer. Each of our faces lit up as we thought over the prospect of fresh venison in the freezer and trekking out into the cold wilderness to bring home dinner. Of course we over romanticized the whole adventure in our minds; after all, not one of us bears the name Daniel Boone or Jeremiah Johnson, and there is a grocery store 1/2 mile down the road. But, every man has an adventure to face and a beauty to rescue, right? And, with the slim-pickin’s regarding females in the "great north" (Alaska’s nickname really should be: The Men with Beards State), an adventure offering a fairly good chance of frostbite, hypothermia, or death was just what the doctor ordered. So, after finishing off another batch of pancakes, we set off for the "wild".
Allow me to preface something. Deer hunting to the folk of Southeast Alaska does not mean the same thing as deer hunting means to the good ol' boys of the mountains of North Carolina. No; in Sitka, rarely do you hear of someone going out early in the morning and settin' in a tree stand for hours upon end. Nope, people just aren't patient up here I guess. In these woods, deer hunting entails getting in your boat (something everyone has, mind you), and setting off to remote islands and inlets. Where, upon arrival, the actual "hunting" is defined as riding up and down the miles and miles of shoreline, until a deer is spotted feeding by the water. Then (if you are in the business of abiding by the law, which, I must add, because Patrick is Mr. Fish & Game, I certainly am), you shore your boat and creep up to where you’ve got a clear shot, and proceed to fell the rascal (if you are not in the business of abiding by the law, you just stand up in your boat and pull the trigger). This type of hunting offers a fresh, new challenge and demands stealth, so, I must admit, yesterday I was extremely excited.
We left the house and swung by our friend Brian's house to pick up the Cattywampus - our boat for the day (sweet name huh?). After shoveling out the snow from inside the boat, hooking up the gas tank, and throwing a few snowballs, we set off for the dock. Once we got the craft in the water, put on our "mustang” survival suits (extremely warm flotation suits), and loaded up all our gear, we realized that there wasn't a plug for the drain hole - which was making our boat begin to fill up with water. So, naturally, being the Alaskan men that we are (or more like Patrick, Kyle, and David are; I’m still learning), we improvised by using an extra glove and a handy stick to stop the incoming flow, and proceeded to set off into the arctic waters. And, of course, it began to snow harder.
The plan was to head to a group of islands across the bay from town, where, supposedly, there are deer aplenty. To do this though, we had to cross open water, Pacific water specifically. The waves began to surge larger and larger, the wind began to blow harder and harder, and snow began to fall thicker and thicker. The Cattywampus is not exactly a yacht; it’s more like a row boat - a 30 horsepower, 16 foot, aluminum row boat to be precise. So, rough water isn't really what the boat was designed to handle. But, what did a bunch of young-guns care about that? We plowed ahead through the open water like soldiers in a battleship, crashing though the waves at 20 knots - splashing water all into our skiff and on ourselves. Salt water sprayed our hair and wind lashed out at our faces. 5 minutes into the excursion I couldn't feel my fingers and toes, 10 minutes in I couldn't feel my face, and 15 minutes in I couldn't feel my body at all. Patrick said it was around 20 degrees air-temp, but riding in that open water with the wind made it closer to -20°. Half way across the bay the waves began to tower above our boat; for the Cattywampus, it was the perfect storm. Patrick yelled at Kyle to turn the boat east and head into Silver Bay (a narrow inlet that has mountains towering on either side of it), where we would find calmer water. After another half-hour of crashing waves, ocean spray, and death's doorstep, we made it into the bay. If you would have been an eagle flying overhead at that moment, you would have seen four men (or three men and a boy; remember, I’m still learning), soaked to the bone in salt water, and covered in at least an inch of snow; their hair coated in ice, and their eyes glazed - deep and fierce. Not one of us was expecting a battle with the sea itself, but, now that we had escaped it’s grasp, it was as though nothing, and I mean nothing, could stop us on our adventure.
We road into Silver Bay; where we were met with eerie calmness and quiet. There weren't any crashing waves. There wasn’t any ocean spray. There wasn’t any driving wind. The water was still and placid; like a mirror. Remaining was only the falling snow; which, by the way (no exaggeration), was falling as heavy and thick as a blanket made of ram's fur. We traveled mile after mile through the inlet, deep into the mountains. With every stroke of the motor the air temperature dropped and the snow fell larger and thicker. It fell so densely that we could hardly see what was in front of us; our boat cut through the snow like a knife. We were all covered in snow and our hair was frosted white (Patrick’s beard was unbelievable by this point). My eyelashes kept freezing together, and I had to break them apart over and over again to even see; I have never been as cold as I was at that moment. Before Saturday, I had experienced Alaska, but not in the way it was made legendary. This was the early gold miners' Alaska, this was Jack London's Alaska, this was legendary Alaska.
We crept along the edge of the shore in the Cattywampus, keeping a careful gaze on the bank for any sign of life. Every now and then we would pass a sea-lion or seal in the water, or see a bald eagle or raven stationed on top of a spruce. But; no deer. We continued through the inlet, until we arrived at a small estuary. We floated into the estuary, at which time Patrick began to tell several stories about close encounters with grizzly while hiking in the area. The water in the bay had become a slushy, icy mix, but in the estuary it was already frozen along the edges and soon would be solid throughout. After a thorough, but fruitless check of the surroundings for deer, we decided to head back towards town - a good 15 miles away. My cheeks were burning from the driving snow and wind, and were about the same color as a freshly washed fire-engine on a hot summer day (at the Haw Creek Volunteer Fire Department of course). We headed the Cattywampus north through Silver Bay (which had begun to freeze at a surprisingly rapid pace), still watching the shore line, but pretty much conceding that, this day, there wouldn't be any fresh meat in the freezer. But, oh, what a day it was. I looked around at the boys - snow covered and soaking wet - and each of us had a huge grin wrapped around our face. Ever since we left the dock each of us knew this adventure wasn't about deer meat; no, this adventure had become about proving that we could take what the “wild” had to offer, and survive. We plowed out of the bay, once again entering the mighty Pacific. The waves still loomed large next to our boat, but we held firm; battling the surge and blowing snow as we crossed open water into town. We made it to the dock, battered and cold, but, without a scratch. We were survivors.
The road had a good 6 inches of un-plowed snow on it as we drove back to our house. The town was completely covered; every building, automobile, and tree. It was picturesque. We arrived back home just before dark and put some water on the stove (in our cast iron skillet I might add) for hot chocolate and instant soup. After a few hours (no joke) I began to feel my extremities again, but, even as late as this evening, I still hadn’t lost the taste of salt water on my tongue. I closed my eyes last night and felt a slight (definitely an understatement) satisfaction with the events of the day. I felt as though Alaska had given me its best - 15 fightin’ rounds - and I had taken the punches, and was still standing.
My housemates will surely poke fun at me when they read this, and go on and on about I haven’t seen anything yet. So, for some strange reason, I still think Alaska has some muscle to flex. And I can’t wait…
I woke up Saturday morning to the sight of snow pouring down outside. I do not wish to minimize the amount of snow coming down; it was, in fact, more snow falling from the sky than I have ever seen before. Most people, when there is a blizzard outside, stay indoors. They put on a warm, fuzzy sweater, brew a hot cup of tea, and immerse themselves in a good book. Sitting around the dining room table, snarfin’ down chocolate chip pancake after chocolate chip pancake and Patrick’s famous “George W. Bush” special (a mix of chili, cheese, and grits; delicious), us boys were in no mind to let an adventure slip by because of few a snowflakes. We discussed for a good long while where we should head off to, with suggestion after suggestion shot down because of this reason or that. We stayed stumped until David (3rd roommate; 26, about my height, scruffy beard, intern with Young Life) spouted out that today was the last day of deer season and he had yet to tag his winter deer. Each of our faces lit up as we thought over the prospect of fresh venison in the freezer and trekking out into the cold wilderness to bring home dinner. Of course we over romanticized the whole adventure in our minds; after all, not one of us bears the name Daniel Boone or Jeremiah Johnson, and there is a grocery store 1/2 mile down the road. But, every man has an adventure to face and a beauty to rescue, right? And, with the slim-pickin’s regarding females in the "great north" (Alaska’s nickname really should be: The Men with Beards State), an adventure offering a fairly good chance of frostbite, hypothermia, or death was just what the doctor ordered. So, after finishing off another batch of pancakes, we set off for the "wild".
Allow me to preface something. Deer hunting to the folk of Southeast Alaska does not mean the same thing as deer hunting means to the good ol' boys of the mountains of North Carolina. No; in Sitka, rarely do you hear of someone going out early in the morning and settin' in a tree stand for hours upon end. Nope, people just aren't patient up here I guess. In these woods, deer hunting entails getting in your boat (something everyone has, mind you), and setting off to remote islands and inlets. Where, upon arrival, the actual "hunting" is defined as riding up and down the miles and miles of shoreline, until a deer is spotted feeding by the water. Then (if you are in the business of abiding by the law, which, I must add, because Patrick is Mr. Fish & Game, I certainly am), you shore your boat and creep up to where you’ve got a clear shot, and proceed to fell the rascal (if you are not in the business of abiding by the law, you just stand up in your boat and pull the trigger). This type of hunting offers a fresh, new challenge and demands stealth, so, I must admit, yesterday I was extremely excited.
We left the house and swung by our friend Brian's house to pick up the Cattywampus - our boat for the day (sweet name huh?). After shoveling out the snow from inside the boat, hooking up the gas tank, and throwing a few snowballs, we set off for the dock. Once we got the craft in the water, put on our "mustang” survival suits (extremely warm flotation suits), and loaded up all our gear, we realized that there wasn't a plug for the drain hole - which was making our boat begin to fill up with water. So, naturally, being the Alaskan men that we are (or more like Patrick, Kyle, and David are; I’m still learning), we improvised by using an extra glove and a handy stick to stop the incoming flow, and proceeded to set off into the arctic waters. And, of course, it began to snow harder.
The plan was to head to a group of islands across the bay from town, where, supposedly, there are deer aplenty. To do this though, we had to cross open water, Pacific water specifically. The waves began to surge larger and larger, the wind began to blow harder and harder, and snow began to fall thicker and thicker. The Cattywampus is not exactly a yacht; it’s more like a row boat - a 30 horsepower, 16 foot, aluminum row boat to be precise. So, rough water isn't really what the boat was designed to handle. But, what did a bunch of young-guns care about that? We plowed ahead through the open water like soldiers in a battleship, crashing though the waves at 20 knots - splashing water all into our skiff and on ourselves. Salt water sprayed our hair and wind lashed out at our faces. 5 minutes into the excursion I couldn't feel my fingers and toes, 10 minutes in I couldn't feel my face, and 15 minutes in I couldn't feel my body at all. Patrick said it was around 20 degrees air-temp, but riding in that open water with the wind made it closer to -20°. Half way across the bay the waves began to tower above our boat; for the Cattywampus, it was the perfect storm. Patrick yelled at Kyle to turn the boat east and head into Silver Bay (a narrow inlet that has mountains towering on either side of it), where we would find calmer water. After another half-hour of crashing waves, ocean spray, and death's doorstep, we made it into the bay. If you would have been an eagle flying overhead at that moment, you would have seen four men (or three men and a boy; remember, I’m still learning), soaked to the bone in salt water, and covered in at least an inch of snow; their hair coated in ice, and their eyes glazed - deep and fierce. Not one of us was expecting a battle with the sea itself, but, now that we had escaped it’s grasp, it was as though nothing, and I mean nothing, could stop us on our adventure.
We road into Silver Bay; where we were met with eerie calmness and quiet. There weren't any crashing waves. There wasn’t any ocean spray. There wasn’t any driving wind. The water was still and placid; like a mirror. Remaining was only the falling snow; which, by the way (no exaggeration), was falling as heavy and thick as a blanket made of ram's fur. We traveled mile after mile through the inlet, deep into the mountains. With every stroke of the motor the air temperature dropped and the snow fell larger and thicker. It fell so densely that we could hardly see what was in front of us; our boat cut through the snow like a knife. We were all covered in snow and our hair was frosted white (Patrick’s beard was unbelievable by this point). My eyelashes kept freezing together, and I had to break them apart over and over again to even see; I have never been as cold as I was at that moment. Before Saturday, I had experienced Alaska, but not in the way it was made legendary. This was the early gold miners' Alaska, this was Jack London's Alaska, this was legendary Alaska.
We crept along the edge of the shore in the Cattywampus, keeping a careful gaze on the bank for any sign of life. Every now and then we would pass a sea-lion or seal in the water, or see a bald eagle or raven stationed on top of a spruce. But; no deer. We continued through the inlet, until we arrived at a small estuary. We floated into the estuary, at which time Patrick began to tell several stories about close encounters with grizzly while hiking in the area. The water in the bay had become a slushy, icy mix, but in the estuary it was already frozen along the edges and soon would be solid throughout. After a thorough, but fruitless check of the surroundings for deer, we decided to head back towards town - a good 15 miles away. My cheeks were burning from the driving snow and wind, and were about the same color as a freshly washed fire-engine on a hot summer day (at the Haw Creek Volunteer Fire Department of course). We headed the Cattywampus north through Silver Bay (which had begun to freeze at a surprisingly rapid pace), still watching the shore line, but pretty much conceding that, this day, there wouldn't be any fresh meat in the freezer. But, oh, what a day it was. I looked around at the boys - snow covered and soaking wet - and each of us had a huge grin wrapped around our face. Ever since we left the dock each of us knew this adventure wasn't about deer meat; no, this adventure had become about proving that we could take what the “wild” had to offer, and survive. We plowed out of the bay, once again entering the mighty Pacific. The waves still loomed large next to our boat, but we held firm; battling the surge and blowing snow as we crossed open water into town. We made it to the dock, battered and cold, but, without a scratch. We were survivors.
The road had a good 6 inches of un-plowed snow on it as we drove back to our house. The town was completely covered; every building, automobile, and tree. It was picturesque. We arrived back home just before dark and put some water on the stove (in our cast iron skillet I might add) for hot chocolate and instant soup. After a few hours (no joke) I began to feel my extremities again, but, even as late as this evening, I still hadn’t lost the taste of salt water on my tongue. I closed my eyes last night and felt a slight (definitely an understatement) satisfaction with the events of the day. I felt as though Alaska had given me its best - 15 fightin’ rounds - and I had taken the punches, and was still standing.
My housemates will surely poke fun at me when they read this, and go on and on about I haven’t seen anything yet. So, for some strange reason, I still think Alaska has some muscle to flex. And I can’t wait…
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