Mary and I hitch from Fairbanks to Eagle, float a canoe to Circle, then hitch back to Fairbanks.
This is episode three. Read the first and second episodes.
This is episode three. Read the first and second episodes.
August 2013 - Yukon River
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After the meek Pio and effusive Gabrielle disappeared from Jack Wade's Junction in a cloud of gravel dust, we cinched our packs and headed up the road towards Eagle, 67 miles onward at the terminus of this high gravel route. Two miles in we stopped to have a seat and appreciate the expansive view to the east of the Canadian border. Despite an unseemly amount of scanning the horizon, that swath of hewn trees marking the boundary between Canada and the USA did not show. We wondered if the practice of clearcutting along the 49th parallel is not perpetuated at the Alaska - Canada border, where we were observing, along the 141st meridian west.
After tucking a brief breakfast into our bellies, the first vehicle we'd seen so far swuing round the corner, right on schedule. Quickly returning our goods to backpacks, we readied our smiles and thumbs as the Texas-tagged Jeep rolled up. A retired couple, the Robinsons, stopped to apologize but the vehicle was full, they told us from the front seats, because there was a dog in the back. We smiled back, that we would not mind cozying with their dog if they would not mind giving us a ride. Goods shuffled, people and dogs packed in, and we were under motor power again.
We petted and cooed over their fine mutt, who seemed not to mind sitting on our laps one bit, as these kind folks plied us with water and butterscotch candies. The Mrs. of our benefactors, Judith, shared similar geographic origins with me, born and raised in Charlotte, NC, attended high school in Huntersville, and college at UNC in Chapel Hill. I wondered if she knew my grandfather, and we talked back and forth about the Queen City. She had not been back in years, so I updated her with what little I knew of that city's developments, now the sad beneficiary of the title, "#2 banking capital in the USA."
The Robinson's told us with pride of their five children and fifteen grandchildren, most of them making their home in Texas, radiating out from their parents home. Speaking of this their first trip to Alaska sparked a gleam in their eyes. This Jeep had been towed behind their main vehicle, a mobile mansion motorhome. The wheeled taj mahal was back in Chicken, where they had stayed the night before. Pleasant conversation sped along the two hours it took for Mr. to navigate the graveled mountain road to Eagle. Mrs. took a picture of us and wrote down our email addresses to share the photo with us. We offered thanks and an enjoyable continuation of their Alaska adventure.
Needing permits from the Park Service for our impending travel through their jurisdiction, we were concerned to discover the office closed. A sign explained that those responsible were nearby, up the hill at the end of the airstrip, participating in Public Lands Information Day. Leaving our packs behind, Mary and I walked into their happy circle. Volunteers, rangers and locals all greeted us with entreaties of lunch; we gladly responded with our hunger. While nibbling, the remains of Fort Egbert drew us in, where we investigated antique fire trucks which once operated here in an attempt to save the all-wooden structure from resolving into a great pile of ash. On down the river a'ways, we would learn that when Fort Egbert was dismantled, its components were a hot item, with a great many buildings since built or repaired sporting the Fort's distinctive slat siding.
Returning down the hill with the Park Rangers, route details were exchanged and paperwork completed. Adding a bear can to the one we had brought, we happily agreed to free rental with promise to return to the Fairbanks office. Spying the book Tristith had spoken of, we bought Two In the Far North to read to each other along the journey.
The two Ranger's we spoke with, both women, each lived in Eagle year-round. The older of the two has made this tiny town her home for thirty years, saying, "Some folks just don't fit in anywhere, except for the end of the road. Or, the beginning of the road!" The younger ranger grew up here, and couldn't say enough good about her home, grinning from ear to ear as she relayed her joy over this, her origin point. She told us of the far-outside exploits of her sister - a professional dog musher, living in Fairbanks (where we've been living, and where our trip began).
The two Ranger's we spoke with, both women, each lived in Eagle year-round. The older of the two has made this tiny town her home for thirty years, saying, "Some folks just don't fit in anywhere, except for the end of the road. Or, the beginning of the road!" The younger ranger grew up here, and couldn't say enough good about her home, grinning from ear to ear as she relayed her joy over this, her origin point. She told us of the far-outside exploits of her sister - a professional dog musher, living in Fairbanks (where we've been living, and where our trip began).
Lashing everything to our backs again, we walked through town to the well pump to fill water vessels - two 2 liter bladders, a nalgene, and a collapsible 10 liter container. En route to the fill-up station we encountered a famous bit of Alaskan legal history - the whitewashed building that first housed Alaska's 3rd Judicial District, Judge Wickersham presiding. Established in 1901, this was Judge Wickersham's first posting in Alaska. His was a storied existence here and he is still remembered fondly. His recounting of the time spent in the early days of our state, is well worth the read in Old Yukon - Tales, Trails, and Trials . A description is in order:
Patriarch of Alaskan judiciary, advocate for statehood and recognition of the wealth of resources and humankind within the territory, Judge Wickersham's tale of his time as an Alaskan judge is well-written, often humorous, and always insightful. Though he does parrot some of the thoughts about those less "cultured" than he, his encounters with the truly native population were often positive. He briefly questions life as a cog in the machinery of economy verses what he identifies as the natives freer existence - which is happier? A fine read and excellent window into a formative period of Alaska.
With our water jugs just capped, David, a local Athabascan guy, called out from his truck, asking what we two strangers might be up to. After telling him our brief tale, he drove us the mile or so remaining down to the boat landing. We had little time to know him, other than to learn that he had been drafted during the Vietnam War, and was glad to return to Eagle and be shed of that experience when it concluded.
I jumped out to locate our canoe hidden amidst brush. David checked on our supplies, "Got bug dope? They're much better now than they were earlier, buy they still get bad in the weeds." Reassuring him of our anti-mosquito armament, we thanked him for the ride, and hoped he was right about the little blood-sucking pollinator's decrease in activity from the moose-strangling standard they attain to during summer months.
Only moments into the stream before we swung into the first confused current, sped up as it began to twist around an island sat smack in the curve of the river just past the retaining wall of downtown Eagle. Inexperienced in directing a canoe in tandem, we took the path offered us by the direction of the water, soon speeding past a large metal wall intended to protect this small town from the freight train of breakup, that dreaded time in spring when titanic icebergs cruise this river looking for settlements to devour. Just this past May, the torrent of frozen river began moving around midnight, seizing up at the bend just past Calico Bluffs. Within three hours, the flood had backed up the 13 miles from that point to begin flooding the town and crushing the retaining wall beneath pancakes of ice.
Our senses' less tensely focused on simply making the bend, we heard the sound of a leak, from what we weren't sure, as a steady hissing noise issued up from the floor of the canoe. Investigation soon identified it as the rush of the river's silt-load against our boats underside, whistling in companionship as it transported boat and ballast. The tone changed in time with the river's varying speed, a swifter hum in constricted bends, in harmony with a resonant thrumming amidst the confusion of an eddy.
A cave tucked in a low cliff called for us to beach our whale and climb the scrabble to inspect the world. The view taken-in, a review of map and guidebook augmented the landscape, the first in many sessions of uncovering the where in our way. An hour approached and passed us by before sliding our craft back into the flow and paddling in earnest to cross the half-mile plus to the opposite shore, to find a Kate glad-to-meet-us.
Some hundred yards from their home, we alighted on the opposite shore to the baying of a ragtag kennel of pack dogs heralding our arrival. Walking past a green house filled with salad greens, we strode up onto the porch of a two story, maybe 800 square foot cabin, introducing ourselves to the matron, Miss Kate herself. Our ears were soon filled with tales, as we set down on the porch and let her smoked salmon occupy our tastebuds.
Yes, she told us, this most recent flood was bad. But nothing in comparison to the flood of 2009. Fueled by record snowfalls, flowing downhill to fill overfull rivers, the ice at Eagle was nearly 5 feet thick, almost double measurements taken in typical seasons. They were all in boats tied up to surrounding trees, her, Andy, and 40 screaming dogs, using oars to push themselves free of the grinding and gnashing of icebergs filling the yard. Then the ice-dam just downriver broke. The area began to drain with a gurgle like a great tub of wash water. Unsatisfied with the taste already taken, this tsunami in reverse returned in a surge of the river's frozen teeth; then repeated, sucking out again, dragging everything it could reach with each successive flush.
One of their canine companions did not survive, pulled beneath a boat before his tether could be cut. Kate tells us this horror, seated on her porch, with four years of clean-up and repair behind and around her. Pointing at her dry feet upon the home's floorplanks to show where the water had been rushing, she told how the river would have taken the entire home had it not been for their concrete root cellar, buried at the center of the home, which once filled with flood water, anchored the cabin to its footing. Looking about her, she remarks that they've only just this year recovered to the state they were before the flood. Pointing towards the woods, further from the marauding river, she indicates their new cabin, in the early stages of construction, saying "Andy thinks another month and we'll have it weathered in."
Our socializing sped on another half-hour before the man himself showed, having just returned from checking a fish net rigged in a downstream creek. His report is empty-hands - no fish. Descending into the anchoring root-cellar, he returns with pints of home-brew, a potent and slightly hoppy amber nectar. Our snack of smoked salmon is now paired with Andy's conversation and drink as he breathes a sigh of relaxation at the end of the day's chores. Refilling our glasses, he leads us out on tour, while Kate sets into dinner preparations.
The unfinished cabin is our first stop. Andy describes to us the old-fashioned wisdom of log cabins, the truth of assisting heat retention with the principles of thermal mass, and the relative folly of building with typical R-value. His new home will be constructed of three layers, a middle layer of cellulose insulation sandwiched between an exterior and interior wall, each three inches thick. The mass will equate to a home that warms rapidly, and holds steady, multiplying the initial investment of BTU's into hours of radiated heat.
Like their current residence, the new cabin will sport an anchoring root cellar. This wilderness-fridge will be in addition to an exterior cellar they have just completed, a large 5 foot wide and 20 foot deep bunker, heaped over with dirt. Here in the sub-arctic, root cellars serve a function additional to keeping goods cool in summer - they also prevent freezing in the winter. Future plans call for a large water tank stored in the exterior root cellar, to maintain a reserve of drinking water safe from the ravages of below-freezing temperatures.
Nearby sits the instrument of lumber division, a portable saw mill used to turn trees into timbers. "Paid for itself already, and I've just had it this one year," Andy tells us proudly. "Wish I'd bought it years ago!" His concrete mixing mechanism sits off to the side, its use evident in the piles of fine-grit sifted through a screen to obtain the right size gravel for the alchemy of foundations.
Our next stop involved an exposition of the site's off-grid electricity setup. Inside a a tiny cabin, amp's flowed into a bank of batteries and out the invertor nearby. A small wood stove keeps the place from freezing over, while the windmill overhead spools energy at maximum revolutions. The torrential wind gave Andy the chance to explain the generator's cut-out feature, designed to free-wheel if the force is beyond it's capability to operate without stripping the internal workings.
We poked amongst Andy's hobby-gear of rock polishing and jewelry making tools. He pointed out his favorite gems - we marveled over the unusual juxtapositions of color and gradations. Picking out an amethyst-like stone, he gifted Mary with it in exchange for a promise she would send a photo of what she created with it.
We were next led through a succession of greenhouses to pick salad fixings: first lettuces, then tomatoes; some broccoli gone to seed and a purple bell pepper; concluding with a selection of herbs and chives. A small, spicy lettuce variant from seeds sent by friends in the Netherlands was a particular delight. Taking our collection of veggies to the house, we rejoined Kate, rinsing and chopping this bounty as she finished up the main course: spaghetti in a black-bear tomato sauce! This black bear had the misfortune of hazing the dogs out back three weeks earlier, whereupon it become a lesson in the frontier life for two boys visiting from Europe; and now had become our delicious dinner.
We continued peppering them with questions as dinner was prepped and then eaten, sitting in awe of their ingenuity and complexity. Pointing out a strange system of pipes exiting the woodstove to outdoors, Andy described their air-induction system, "Piping air in from outside prevents the house from acting as a vacuum when the windows are opened; otherwise opened windows would suck out the heat; now they can be opened for fresh air while heating the home." Having been steeping ourselves in tales of those who have made their lives in this area for hundreds of years, we asked if he ran a trapline. "Once did, but I can't bring myself to kill animals for money anymore, not when it isn't absolutely necessary."
Kate, originally from Newfoundland, told us of her previous life as the wife of a Canadian judge. She told a cautionary tale of his start as a criminal defense attorney. He enjoyed it at first, but the daily exercise of dealing with folks in dire straits eventually took its toll, so she cautioned against such a career choice for myself. She expressed her bitterness for the terminal strain of the practice of law on her late husband in her attitude towards the accused, saying simply, "Hang em, hang em, hang em."
Polishing off our plates with gusto, we thanked them for the unexpected cuisine in the wilderness, and retired to setup camp on the banks of the Yukon. A swiftly whispering wind blew down the river and across our faces all night. The sun set, in a crown of flame. We awoke to the sound of dogs asking for breakfast around 6:30 am. After scurrying to the cabin to fill our coffee thermos, we launched back out into the river.
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