In search of Timothy Treadwell (day 3)

With only two or three hours of darkness, the morning came quickly and I stayed in bed for what felt like hours after the sun came up. "Surely it was ten or eleven o' clock" by now, I thought as I dragged my perceived-to-be lazy butt out of bed. Turns out it was only seven, but either way my limited agenda for the day had ample time for relaxedness. The only plan for the day was bushwhack to the top of Mount Ninagiak.

Mount Ninagiak (I think that that's it's name... I was told it's name, but promptly forgot it. It is unnamed on the highest available USGS topo map, but the nearest adjacent creek is named as such) stands at slightly over 2100 feet above sea level (so, about 2090 feet above my campsite) and climbing it requires literally hacking through alder-choked vegetation for the majority of that vertical and horizontal climb. Generally, "bushwhacking" doesn't actually mean whacking bushes, but in this case it does. While the peak is only about three miles from my campsite, as the raven flies, it was at least a half day undertaking to get up and back. I had a lazy breakfast, informed the nearest person (Dave Bachrach of AK Adventures in Homer of my plans, and packed up some food, water, and clothing for the day. It was a bright and sunny day, but a fog bank was visible off of Kodiak Island, so I packed my rain gear none-the-less. You never know how drastically the weather can change in Alaska.

Kent Fredriksson (great guy, by the way!), thirteen summer veteran of Halo Bay and one of the people who had been attempting to dissuade me from heading towards Halo Glacier, had suggested this hike and recommended that I start from his camp and head up some bear trails over the nearby alder-covered plateau. I believed him, even though his directions essentially amounted to: "Follow the bear trail up, down into a valley, and it will take you right up to the mountain."

The supposedly singular bear trail turned out to be a little more difficult to follow than his directions made it out to be and the bear trails along that plateau were significantly less traveled than, for example, the bear trails that Timothy Treadwell describes in his book as the "Grizzly Maze" (i.e. Kaflia Bay). But I'm pretty damn good at navigating and it was a clear day, so I just kept a steady heading and glanced up at the mountain (when a break in the alders allowed me to do so) to make sure that I was on track. After a couple miles of ducking, crouching, hacking brush, and swinging back and forth on trails that came in and went away, eventually I came out on a little ridge above a lake. Following the lake for a little while I actually found what appeared to be a bear's day bed: a big nest-like depression in the ground, padded with grass which had a fantastic, unobstructed view over both the lake and Hook "Creek" (it's a river anywhere outside of Alaska).

This spot gave me a really good view of the full route up the mountain allowing me to size up my route. I gave a long sigh and could see that if I proceeded, it would be a lot more hacking through the alders. I dropped down to the river and took a look at the time, seriously considering a turn down the river to just do a loop without heading up the mountain. I literally flipped a coin and it told me to head up, so away I went, fording the river and disappearing back into the alder thickets on the far bank.

The first pitch up the far bank gave me some (albeit false) hope, with a beautiful easy hike through a grassy, fern-covered meadow. Unfortunately, the pitch was short lived and I resumed me slog through the alders and willow. Only, it was quite evident that there was not much bear or moose activity on this side of the river, because any semblance of animal trails were completely absent. I was on my own.

The approach was less straightforward than I had hoped. What appeared from afar to be a straight slope up the mountain turned out to be slightly undulating. Meaning that my bushwhacking path took me up, then down, then up then down again. It was a net gain... but still, you only want to have to hack up that stuff once. Part way up I flipped another coin, and it told me to keep going. Eventually, I got up to a spot where the brush was so think that I couldn't even see my feet or where they were stepping. I just put my foot down and hoped that I hit ground. Occasionally when I would go to step forward, there would be a horizontal branch right and shin level and I would slam my shins into the tree and stumble to catch myself. There are bruises.

However, the worst of the brush was right before I peaked out into the tundra meadows which the most beautiful wilderness hiking that one can imagine. Once I hit the tundra, it was just a meandering climb through meadows of ankle-high grass and innumerable wildflowers: chocolate lilies, lupine, paintbrush and many, many others, not to mention all the colorful varieties of mosses and lichens. After a few more minutes of climbing, and a little scrambling on the shale-like rock of the near summit, I reached the top and was rewarded with an amazing view of the whole bay and the entire lowlands: sedge-grass meadows, gravelly salmon spawning rivers, clam bearing tidal flats, moose infested willow thickets, bear housing alder forests. Few places in the lower forty-eight can one take in a view of such natural cohesiveness and completeness.

The descent was quick and moderately painless (although those low, horizontal alders banged up my shins quite a bit more) and I when I arrived back at the river, I plunged into it in the heat of the afternoon sun, clothing and all. It felt amazing. For the return trip, I opted to hike the river's inviting gravel flats back to the beach, rather than undertake more bushwhacking, and I must say that it was an excellent choice. A mosquito-free tent awaited me back at camp, and I crashed for a late afternoon nap before cooking some dinner and bedding down for the night.