"Every few minutes I’d anxiously walk out to the point and look toward the middle of the arm. White caps began to appear, but for a time I thought we still stood a chance. Eventually, however, I saw “liquid smoke,” which occurs when the wind gusts 50 miles per hour or more. The strong wind sheared the tops of the waves and sent a vertical wall of droplets at fast moving right angles to the surface of the sea. Our window had closed. It was time to head to high ground."
Packrafting for Cyclists
"Alaska is full of many campfire stories that have been handed down through the generations. Few are as lasting and retold as the first Alaska Mountain Wilderness Classic Race in 1982. A group of racers stood on the bank of a big river wondering how to circumvent the torrent when the grizzled sage Dick Griffith walked up, donned his fuzzy Viking hat, inflated a surplus, one-man raft and bid ado to the terrestrial bound adventurers."
Read more here: Bikepackers Magazine
Salsa Beargrease: First Impressions
A turning point, in the not too distant past, was crossed without my fully noticing it. My life as a cyclist has been largely one of cobbling parts together from one old beater to the next, with the occasional splurge on a fancy component. Now I find myself riding a 23-pound carbon fiber Salsa fat-bike.
The first thing I noticed about the Salsa Beargrease, once I assembled it and took it for the first spin, was the how light it felt underneath me. My immediate playground is the beach below my cabin, which is comprised of technical slabs of shale, seams of coal, loose gravel, big boulders and sand. I love riding this stretch of beach because it requires attention and focus to navigate and no two rides through are ever the same. Upon the Beargrease, it was a whole new experience of delicate maneuverability.
The idea, as I understand it, is that fat-bikes should float. In terrain where traditional mountain bikes would wallow and sink, a fat-bike comes to life. It stands to reason that a lighter fat-bike will perform better in soft riding conditions and so far this is proving to be true.
The core of my interest and motivation is expeditions – long wilderness routes where self-reliance, adaptability, and creativity are required. I love technical riding for the confidence it builds. I love micro-adventures for the habituation and preparedness it heightens. I love commuting for the daily dose of lactic acid and the feeling of wellbeing that comes from hauling myself around under my own steam. However, in the back of my mind these excursions are all mental and physical exercises for next big trip.
Last week my partner Kim and I spent 5 days bikepacking with the new bikes. Our goal was to mimic the conditions we expect to encounter on our upcoming six to eight-week wilderness expedition. We wanted soft, technical terrain with a water component and occasional bikewacking/hauling. We found what we were looking for, and in both our estimations the Beargrease gets an A+.
It is often stated that steel is the best choice for road touring. One of the reasons is because if anything should crack on the frame it is the easiest material to repair. I don’t foresee myself carrying a welder anytime soon but I can envision carrying sandpaper, rubbing alcohol, two-part epoxy and carbon fiber patch material. My hunch is, this repair kit will remain unused and at the bottom of the pack but there is no other frame material I am aware of that someone in the middle of nowhere can field repair as readily as carbon fiber.
In and out of the packraft with the bike takes a minute no matter how efficient you are. Through axles are not only stiff and secure, they also shave time during the wheel on and off transitions that occur regularly on summer bike/raft trips. Leaving the axle in the fork with the wheel off also seems more secure and sturdy during transport.
Another feature, which I approve of, is the lack of attachment points on the bike. There are no water bottle cage or rack mounts and in this instance I think this is a good thing. Our plan is to use two or three Relevate Designs bags on the bikes while underway this summer but we will also be carrying large Mountain Laurel backpacks. We intend to take all gear off the bike when we are bushwacking or are otherwise unable to ride. When conditions become favorable we’ll strap the bags and packraft back on. Holes in the frame in this instance will just be places for water to get in which would add unwanted weight and corrode moving parts.
One five day trip and several weeks of riding around on the Beargrease have led me to believe that I’ll be comfortable for the long haul. Now that all the micro-adjustments to the bike have been made, the tires have been kicked and several coats of mud have been applied, it feels like it’s mine, and it feels ready for adventure.
Tustumena
A good criminal knows better than to return to the scene, but like a moth to the flame the lucidity to resist is often overpowered and morbid fascination takes ahold. Some years ago I saw my life, and the lives of my companions, flash before my eyes near Tustumena Glacier as a fully developed brown bear sow barreled down on us with the strength and force of the most potent childhood nightmare. Last week Kim and I decided to return.
In preparation for our upcoming expedition from Juneau to Homer Kim and I craved a five-day wilderness fat-bike and packraft ‘shakedown’ trip. We wanted to test out new gear and try new systems but mostly we wanted to be outside.
Springtime on the Kenai Peninsula is heart achingly beautiful. Migratory birds arrive each day and bring with them their distinct song. The air is alive with music, the forest sprouts fresh buds and water is released from its icy bondage and is allowed to flow again. Even the freshly scorched earth, from last year’s forest fire, speaks of renewal and life.
Our path along the shore was fleeting and only exists when the water level is low. We, however, are not the only ones to have observed this temporary causeway. Tracks of moose, coyote, wolf, river otter, crane and most obvious of all, bear – big bear with cubs had been coming and going before us and left their mark in the sand.
Each day we’d shot put our excrement into the depths of the lake upon heavy stones. The animals there are wild and are as of yet unaware of the tasty morsels we humans carry. Mostly they are hunted animals and they prefer to keep their distance, but we do our part as best we can.
From sand to cobble, to shingle to pebbles no two miles were ever the same. No mundane rhythm ever set in as the shoreline rolled passed. Both out and back on the same course is something I try to avoid but in this case it was the most logical course of action and the variety of conditions stole my attention and focused it on the micro path two pedal strokes ahead.
Tustumena Lake is big but the sky is even bigger. Each day we’d look to the other end and see gloomy thunderclouds but above our heads would be sky and sun. Not until our last hour did we experience rain and by then it was time to go.
Backpedaling the Wrangells
There is almost a morbid fascination I have with reviewing what went wrong from my own mistakes and the luckless that have perished in the wild. In many cases, a chain of events that begins with a small chink in the armor sets off a terrible cascade that can often prove fatal.
Read more of my article in Side Tracked here: Backpedaling in the Wrangells
The Kahn of Katmai
His caution was impeccable, speed unbeatable and alertness always. He'd just escaped two roving boars who'd seen him as prize meal and he was flagging from the effort. Napping with his chin resting on a log afforded him a brief and guarded respite from the cruel, friendless world that surrounded him.
This is a photo I took a few years ago, while guiding in Katmai, of one of the most remarkable bears I've had the opportunity of being around and observing. The previous year, this cub and his sibling were under the protection of their full-sized and fiercely protective mother. I watched her defend them many times and once the pair sought shelter behind my camp as she fought off a hungry boar, eager to eat the defenseless cubs.
When I saw them the next season only one cub had survived winter - the one known as Max. Max and his mother were never seen apart, and well into his third season he was still suckling at her tit and living with the security of her defense.
One evening I took a group into the meadow and saw the mother and cub sauntering in our direction. Being familiar with a bear is not the same as being comfortable with a bear, so we stopped to see what they'd do. Eventually the sow lay down on her back and Max proceeded to nurse on her nutritious extract. Once he’d drunk his fill they both stood up and marched slowly toward us. The mother, mind you, was the queen of the region. She was massive and although we'd just witnessed her tremendous capacity for compassion I'd also seen her battle. She could be very intimidating.
She walked within three feet of us, stopped and began giving our assembly a full sniff down. Breathing seemed to cease and with my index finger on the pull chord of a flare, I whispered to the group, "Don’t make eye contact". After she'd taken in her information, she casually walked away with little Max in tow. Client and guide alike shared the exhalation of air and the ear throbbing surge of adrenaline as they retreated.
The next day we saw the pair again. This time however something new happened and little Max's life was forever changed. When a randy boar pursued his mother, she did not decline his offer. She was ready to mate again and the mother son bond was forever broken. The little guy had been brought up, cared for and protected by a potent mother but in an instant he was alone in the world, and worse yet, a vulnerable, easy victim within the Ursos arctos pecking orders.
For the rest of the season I watched him evolve into his new rank and position and I have never felt more certain of a creatures scrappy adaptability.
It's been a few years since I've seen this remarkable bear. I like to imagine that if he's alive he's become the Kahn of Katmai.
You can't win them all
As summer drew to an end, Kim and I hastily readied ourselves for a fall trip. We’d been toying with a few ideas, but the Wrangells were calling and a long bike/raft traverse was what we desired. We loaded our new truck with bikes, rafts, camping gear and food and began the long drive east.
The Wrangells are a range of massive volcanoes in eastern, interior Alaska. They are both where I was raised and where I lived as a young ‘man’ and had done more to shape me than any other place ever has or could. I was excited to share them with Kim and to have an opportunity to reconnect.
Many people in Alaska find it hard to break away from their community and often miss out on the rest of what the state has to offer. I never want to fall into that trap and make a point to travel as often as possible. When an old family friend asked when the last time I’d been to the Wrangells was, I had to think about it. 2004 was the answer. Unacceptable.
Our goal was to traverse from north to south in one of the few non-glaciated routes in the range. September could be a great month for the trip because the creeks and rivers are low, but the threat of early snow becomes very real and nighttime temperatures drop well below freezing. We were a little worried that the route offers no easy bailout option and that we’d not be carrying the In-Reach tracking device, but our enthusiasm was in overdrive. I had wanted to do this trip for many years.
Snow had descended below 2,000 the morning we drove the Nabesna road. By mid-day we could see the warmth of the sun melting it back up the hills. Nervous discussions ensued about snow and the fact that we’d be crossing passes of 5 and 6 thousand feet in elevation. “It’s become so hard to predict the weather.” Cole Ellis said, as we discussed our route with him at Devils Mountain Lodge. My father had guided with Cole in the early 70’s and his family had been living in the Wrangells since the 50’s. I was thankful that he didn’t think us stupid or reckless for attempting our trip this late in the season but he mentioned the value of the safety net in the form of a tracking device. He was as ambivalent about the weather as us and agreed that it could go either way.
After a visit and tour of the property, Kim and I loaded our bikes, shouldered our packs and headed down the trail. Fall colors in the big mountains defy description and pull much needed attention from our gazes. We’d stop every time we rounded a bend or entered a clearing to take in the majestic and colorful landscape.
After a few miles we reached a creek where we inflated the rafts, stowed gear and began paddling. After a short trip down the creek we joined the braided Nabesna River and followed it down several miles to a confluence with a creek that we’d follow up into the high country the following day. Near gale force winds blew up river. Whenever we got out of the rafts to scout or portage over an island we had to anchor them with rocks. Paddling down river never seemed so slow. Summer was clearly over.
Riding up riverbeds on big tired bikes is tremendous fun. Micro lines through a series of seemingly unrideable rocks present themselves at the last second. Just when you think you’ll have to dismount and push, the line comes into focus and you power/navigate through. Little bursts of elation pop in your head every time a successful passage over the rocks fall behind you.
Kim and I worked our way up the creek for the first half of the day until we reached a fork. From there the incline steepened, the rocks became bigger and the bike pushing began. Earlier, Kim had been swept off her feet during one of the many creek crossings. Our new creek bed flowed with less water but the nervous pit in our stomachs returned. There were many creeks to come.
“This is no where near where we are.” I was reading the latitude and longitude on our GPS and lining them up on our map. The two lines intersected on our map but they were 20+ miles to the north west of our actual position. We’d been leaving “breadcrumbs” as we went but until now we hadn’t taken the time to read our coordinates and impose them on the map. We shut the unit off and tried again. The result was the same. “We’ve put in a long day. Let’s sleep on this problem and address it in the morning.” I said.
The next morning, over coffee, we discussed long and hard the situation we were in. Excluding our navigation equipment, our gear was awesome. Our hearts and bodies were in but our minds couldn’t get over our inability to navigate in anything but clear weather. “What happens when we reach the Chitistone and it snows?” “Will we be able to find the pass and what about the skinny little goat trail on the 40+º slope?” There are many wrong ways to go but only one right one. The day was beautiful and clear but already light cirrus was brewing on the southern sky. “Fuck!”
We’ve become used to these complicated tools that reach up into the sky at the speed of light, find three or more satellites, use trilateration and fix you to a reasonably exact position on earth. The consolation from that information can be both trivial and life sparingly incredible. To face the rest of our traverse without the GPS was to remove precisions and expect luck to be our guide.
As the morning wore on more cirrus moved into the sky and we made the tough decision to retreat. Our only consolation was that we would come back and this had been a good recon. Our return trip involved biking back up the Nabesna River. It never ceases to amaze us how perfectly adapted big tire bikes are for much of Alaska’s remote terrain and we made the most or our loop back to the truck.
Days later one of us would bellow, “Damn! I bet we’d have been fine. We should have tried.” The other would console, “We made the smart decision and need to remember that.” The roles would reverse in an hour and the bellyaching would begin all over again.
We had time before we needed to come home so we drove to the southern Wrangells and spent two days exploring the Root Glacier out of Kennicott. The weather warmed but with the warmth came rain and the trip across the glacier with bikes was out. On warm days the surface of glaciers metamorphoses into loose, crunchy ice that offers traction and purchase. When it rains the ice stays smooth and slick and crampons become necessary.
We followed the lateral moraine toward the Stairway Icefall, one of the seven wonders of Alaska, in my opinion. The icefall begins in an ice field above eleven thousand feet and in less than five miles flows down to thirty five hundred feet. The earth trembles under the force of this steep river of ice and you can feel geology happening around you.
As a fresh faced 19-year old I moved out to McCarthy/Kennicott to climb mountains. My first gig was “curator” of the museum. Although my time spent with the old-timers learning about the human history of the Kennicott Mine was fascinating, I was constantly pulled into the hills. Room and board was not enough of an enticement so by mid-summer I’d moved up to Chris Richards place in Kennicott. Chris was a survivor of the famous massacre who was then running a historic tour business. Without much effort I talked him into letting me take tourists out on the glacier and later into guiding fly-in multi-day mountaineering trips, under his insurance.
Chris died years later in a tragic house fire along with his survivor’s guilt and treasure trove of tales. I love telling other people’s stories, but few if any as much as his. The wild, drunk pirate is gone but the guide service lives on and it was easy for me to feel like a first time visitor. So much has changed since I lived there that it’s not worth a comparison and we enjoyed our time without reservation or wistful longing for the ‘old times’.
On our return trip through Chitna we stayed again with our friend Michael Moody. Few people know how to squeeze a dime further and survive longer on less than this man. Every time I visit, his garden doubles in size and his breadth of wisdom about Alaskan botany triples. He lives in a shack next to the log cabin church that was built when the area was developed in the turn of the twentieth century. Growing, procuring, and subsistence fill his days along with being the only local EMS first responder and teacher. I am not religious but being around Michael feels like being in the presence of a saint – the saint of the Alaskan bush. Wild mushrooms were blooming and with Michael’s directions, we used our last day in the Wrangell’s to harvest as many agarics as we could find to dry for our winter larder.
We freely admit that we are spoiled beyond redemption. We’ve raised our personal bars rather high so when we are forced to return from a trip prematurely it hits us hard. We’ve gone over and over our decision to retreat and always land on that we made the ‘wise’ choice. The tenor and nature of the trip changed after our decision was made and I do not regret having seen people and spending a more relaxed time with old friends. To quote Woody Allen: ‘If you’re not failing every now and again, it’s a sure sign that you’re not trying anything very innovative.’
Note: I’ve been in contact with the FAA since being home in an attempt to find reason for our GPS failure. In August, the Air Force was doing controlled GPS outages but I am still not sure if there is a correlation. I also found a site that posts when there will be scheduled GPS outages. Seems like a worthwhile thing to peruse before heading into the backcountry.
Harvest Season
Every year without fail my birthday comes at the end of July. Without a calendar I would still know when to celebrate my most recent trip around the sun because late July is when berries are finally ripe enough to pick, here in Alaska.
As a boy growing up in interior some of my favorite memories are from this time of year. My mom and I would walk to the berry patches around our property in Slana - buckets in hand. My best intentions to put more in the pail than in my mouth seemed to always fall short. Seeing my mothers buckets filled with wild raspberries, low bush blueberries, cranberries and currents I knew that our winter larder was safe, regardless of my lack of contribution.
Back at home berries were transformed into jam, jelly, pies, crisps and syrup. My brothers and I would elbow in on our mother, vying for who got to lick the spoon, try the first bite or be left with the scrapings of the bowl. When berry preserving was in full swing we'd remove our shirts and let the berries stain our mouths, foreheads, ears and bellies - inside and out. The berry debauchery concluded with a bath and often a frantic dash to the outhouse.
I tuned 40 this late July and once again the berries are ripe. Im thankful for this seasonal infusion of plump, sugary berries and of the ritual my mother helped foster in me. My resolve to bring home more than I eat has improved some but I still have to remove my shirt and require a bath afterword.
Fat-Bike To The Arctic - Gear Review
I have written a gear review of the equipment Kim and I used on our 1,000+ mile fat-bike expedition the the arctic of Alaska which has been published on Ground Truth Trekking.
'Every expedition and trip reveals new insight about technique and equipment and we always hope to incorporate that wisdom on the next trip. ‘Fat-bike to the Arctic’ stood on the shoulders of our experimentation over the years and vicarious lessons from others.
Herein I will attempt to outline and review the equipment we used on our 1,000 + mile, winter fat-bike trip to the arctic of Alaska.'
Read more here.
Alaska -Still Fighting
In 1989, over 11 million gallons of North Slope, crude oil spilled out of a single hull tanker into Prince William Sound. The oil soon left protected waters and was carried by the current, along the gulf coast of Alaska. 25 years later evidence of degradation is still present and the sound has never fully recovered.
This was the biggest oil spill in US history, until 2010 when Deepwater Horizon, in the Gulf of Mexico, ran away with the prize.
As citizens, we feel impotent rage in the face of such astounding disasters and are without a compass as to where to begin.
Mavis Muller knows ‘true north’ and doesn’t require a weatherman to tell her which way the foul wind blows. Through bold, honest and striking art, Mavis reaches audiences and leaves them empowered to confront those who violate Mother Earth.
25 years ago Mavis created a series of banners in reaction to the Exxon Valdez oil spill. The banners have traveled the world to spread the message and have visited other communities affected by oil spills.
25 years later the messages are as important as ever. This Earth Day (April-22) Mavis will display the 7 banners in the Homer Boat Harbor, between 10:00AM and 12:00PM. All are welcome.