I planned on taking the Alaska State Ferry back south at the end of my first season, so all through my first summer, I sought input from those park visitors who had ridden the ferry up. Those who had sailed during good weather reported spectacular beauty. But most people had experienced the cloudy, rainy weather typical of that region. They had a damp feeling about a gray trip that had lasted longer than the newness.
I prided myself on possessing the freedom of a hitch-hiking foot passenger, free from the shackles of car ownership that forced the owner to sail according to the car’s reservation. Foot passengers had the freedom of getting on and off whenever they wanted. Therefore I vowed to myself that I would ride the ferry only when the weather was clear.
Such future resolves are easy to make. I derived much self-satisfied pleasure throughout the summer knowing that the weather would be beautiful when I sailed. And so it was when I arrived in Haines the day before the next ferry arrived. After a summer in the Alaskan interior where the trees grow only twenty feet tall, the road to Haines crossed over a pass and descended into a magnificent coastal rain forest of towering trees. I sat beside a river that ran clear, whose surface rippled with hundreds of salmon swimming upstream just a few inches below the surface. Salmon predators surrounded me. Just offshore, bobbing seals blockaded the entrance to the river. Mergansers patrolled up and down the river for fish. Bald eagles flew overhead. Gulls feasted on spent salmon that had drifted into the shallows.
Later, I walked up the road along the river and came upon a miles-long lake resting within an enormous U-shaped valley. Mountains rising four and five thousand feet framed the lake. The air was as calm as the smooth lake. The only motion was an occasional bald eagle soaring over the lake. A slight mist caused the distant shore to recede into enchantment. I felt that if I were to canoe to the far end of that lake, I would land in some Alaskan version of Camelot.
That night, in a campground beside the lake, I went to sleep delighted at how nicely tomorrow’s world was aligning with my vow.
I woke to cloudy skies. Oh, no! The next ferry after today would not come for another two days. Two cloudy, possibly rainy days stuck in a tent in a campground next to RVs running their generators. And at the end of two soggy days, it might still be cloudy for more days or weeks. Plus the nights were growing longer surprisingly fast in September in Alaska. I decided to modify my vow. After all, the clouds were only high, thin clouds. The world was shaded but I could still see the mountain peaks. I began packing to catch the ferry at two.
But the clouds lowered and thickened until there could be no bending of the vow. Either I gave up the vow and got on the ferry or I gave up an unknown portion of my life to sit around a soggy campground in gloomy weather. Making bold promises is a lot easier (and more fun) than the work of keeping them.
A person can’t keep every idle fantasy. One has to sort out those promises that are important from those that are fluff. And this promise about the ferry was surely one of the fluffier ones that didn’t really matter…not really. Getting on the ferry was so clearly the logical thing to do that I would never have to apologize for it or explain it to others. The only difference in my life would be getting off the ferry and getting on with my life two days earlier. The only things missing would be two or more days in a soggy campground.
And yet I knew my heart was keeping track of whether my promises led to anything. This promise was more well-considered than the usual fantasies and it was founded on something important to my self-image: the foot-passenger with freedom to make unconventional choices. Something inside would be wounded if I didn’t keep this promise. Not keeping promises bleeds willpower, diminishes one’s ability to set direction, goals and purpose. I was approaching an age when my roaming could easily skid into simply wandering out of habit.
But any wound would only be inside, invisible to anyone else. The promise hadn’t been made to anyone else. And to put my life on hold and just sit around in the rain for two days because of a silly promise…
Or maybe I could hike up…. Now that would be an adventure. The campground bulletin board had a topographic contour map of the area. It revealed a round lake, surrounded by cliffs, 2500 feet above on the opposite ridge. A round lake way up there has to lie in a cirque. A vision of a beautiful, cliff-embraced lake led my eyes up the mountain. Where the map indicated the lake, I saw a beautiful cascading waterfall. From below, of course, I could not see the lake but I could see the space above the waterfall where the mountainside curved inward, cradling something. It was the sort of space that caught the imagination, that inspired fantasies of camping up there in some future time.
But what if I made that future time now? What if I hiked up there instead of sitting around down here in this campground? Seeing that lake might be worth the two-day delay. I walked over to the bulletin board and spent a long time studying the map, the mountains, and the ferry schedule. No trail ascended the steep, thickly vegetated slopes to that lake. It would be a hard hike. I wished the clouds would lift at least enough to rationalize getting on board.
I examined the steep slope, stretching a line between my starting point and that cirque lake, lengthening it enough to undulate around the divides and drainages on the way up, forming a strong image of the angle of that ascent. I developed a feel of what hiking cross-country at that angle would feel like in terms of a sustainable pace and the angle my body would have in relation to the slope. I studied the details of the slope, developing a sense of how many hours the hike would take. I watched the clouds lower, wondering if the hike could be completed before it started raining. Should I get on the ferry, stay in the campground or try for that lake? I waffled back and forth. The clouds lowered as ferry departure drew nearer. Already, it was midday. Soon there would not be enough time left in the day to make it to the lake. Suddenly I knew I was going to go for it and the sooner the better. I shouldered my pack, followed the road to the lower end of the big lake, crossed the river at a gauging station, and entered the wild.
At first I was beneath the tall trees of the river floodplain. It felt good to be embarking on a pathless adventure. I didn’t mind, even enjoyed the challenge of climbing over or detouring around massive fallen trunks. Within a few hundred yards, the slope steepened and the ascent began.
No trail guided me; I was hiking completely cross-country. My only map was that visual memory of a line angling up across the slope to the lake. I concentrated on ascending the slope at that angle, feeling with my body both the angle of climb and the exertion associated with hiking at that steep but sustainable angle. If I could just maintain that angle, it should lead me within sight of the lake.
Because this was a glacial U-shaped valley, the slope became steeper as I climbed. The hike grew harder. Large trees gave way to smaller trees and brush. Maintaining my angle required concentration because navigating through the mosaic of brush and rock faces turned me from side to side. It began to sprinkle. “Great,” I grinned, “rain makes this more of an epic.” I was warm from climbing, feeling strong, and pleased about keeping my vow.
Intermittent sprinkles grew into sustained drizzle. Though drizzle does not feel wet, it wets all the leaves and branches. As I pushed through the bushes, my pants and socks became drenched, weighing me down. The stiffness of wet pants worked against my climbing muscles.
Occasionally I would stop for some bites of high-energy food and a sip of water, but I couldn’t rest for long because my sweaty and soaking body would start to shiver. I knew all about hypothermia in the book-sense of knowing. I knew this situation could kill me. According to the books, I should stop and get out of the rain. But I couldn’t pitch my tent on this steep brushy slope. The most logical thing was to turn around and quickly drop back to the valley bottom. But my sense of how far the lake was told me it was within reach of my energy reserves.
Head-high brush kept me from seeing the surrounding land and the lowering clouds prevented me from seeing the mountains above. I kept climbing. At higher elevations, the brush did not grow as high. It was easier to push through. But now I was entering the clouds. My world expanded or contracted, lightened or darkened with each thinning or thickening of the clouds. Climbing within the featureless gray of the cloud felt like a dream. But I had my angle; I needed no landmark. I kept climbing for another hour until my body’s sense of distance told me I should be near the lake by now.
Was I off-course? If my angle had not been steep enough, I would eventually come to the stream waterfalling from the lake somewhere above. Then I could just follow the cascade up to the lake. It would be a steep scramble but there was no way I could cross that stream without realizing it. I stopped to listen for the sound of a cascading stream. No sound other than the rain.
This link reveals the shape of my situation. http://krafel.info/wp-content/uploads/2018/07/Upward-Angle-small-loop.gif
Had my angle been too steep? That was the real danger. Perhaps the reason I hadn’t reached the lake was that, within the cloud, I had already passed it. I had no baseline to catch me if my angle was too steep. Perhaps I was on the slopes above the lake! If so, every step was carrying me farther from the lake, carrying me into greater danger of steeper, more exposed slopes. Perhaps I should start angling down across the slope. But if I started dropping down and I wasn’t high enough, I would have to regain all the elevation I had already climbed.
Was I below the lake or above it? I leaned forward as I peered through the gloom in desperate hope of seeing anything that could show me where the lake was. But a steep slope within a cloud was all that could be dimly seen. Wind and rain were all that could be heard. My world was closing in, growing darker. The growing darkness was not from a thickening of the clouds. The unseen sun was sinking. Arctic days shorten dramatically close to Fall Equinox; I had overestimated the amount of daylight I had for the hike. I felt a desperate need to do something different, to dash ahead before all light faded so I could find a landmark or any place level enough to camp on. Was this how panic arises — not as a hot flash but as a growing cold desperation? Was this the mental confusion caused by hypothermia?
I stayed with my upward angle because I did not know what else to do. It was at least based on something; any deviation from it would be just speculation. Concentrating on that angle calmed the panic. On I climbed. Rain fell heavily now. The fading light shrank my world to a few feet of fog. My only guide remaining was the exertion associated with climbing at that angle. And then that became impossible. The slope changed in a disorienting way. I stumbled about but no matter which direction I stepped, I could not feel a steep enough angle. Where was the slope? What direction do I walk? Where am I?
I stopped in the cold, driving rain and breathed, calming myself and as I did, I heard the gentle sound of waves lapping. I walked towards the sound and felt myself walking down a gentle slope. How strange that felt after the hours of climbing! I followed the sound with growing hope until I saw, a few feet ahead at the limit of my sight, small waves lapping against a stony shore.
The lake! I had made it! I was going to live! In fact, I had navigated to it perfectly. Fresh energy surged within. This place was too rocky so I turned to the left and followed the shoreline until it became a narrow ridge lined with bushes. On my right was the lapping level water of the cirque lake; to the left was the cloud-filled void — thousands of feet of darkness down to the great lake below. I happily scurried along the ridge through the dimness, wind, and rain. I came to the outlet, a narrow stream cascading over a rocky edge. The waterfall could be heard down there in the clouds. I easily boulder-hopped across the stream. A few yards farther and I found the perfect campsite beside the lake.
Low, wind-gnarled trees on the ridge shielded a small expanse of level, grassy ground from the direct brunt of the wind. “What a place. I made it. I made it. I’m going to live. This place is so cool!” my spirit sang while my mind focused my soaked body on the task of pitching the tent. I knew I only had a few minutes after stopping before I would begin shivering with cold. No time to lose. Swift precision was essential.
Out came the tent bag. In my damp pack was a plastic garbage bag containing my sleeping bag and a change of clothes. Hopefully they were dry, but in the midst of the storm was not the place to check. Tent first. Up went Ledge (the name my tent had earned during our years together). Under the shelter of the rain fly went my pack, top opening pointed toward the door. My body wanted to crawl right in but not yet. My focused mind said, “First double-check each stake and tighten tent lines so that Ledge can withstand any gust. Make sure the rainfly extends out beyond the tent in every direction so that a sustained storm won’t gradually seep into the tent and turn the tent floor into a puddle. Take a few extra minutes now to adjust Ledge perfectly so I won’t have to re-emerge into a raging storm and grope around in the middle of the night to fix some mistake.” Done!
Crouched in front of the tent door, I pulled out my sleeping pad and tossed it to the back of the tent. The sleeping bag went directly from the garbage bag to the back of the tent (“Bone dry… Yes!”) followed by a dry change of clothes. Soggy boots came off and were laid outside under the rainfly. Finally I crawled into the tent. The moment I entered Ledge, the wind was left outside and the air felt twenty degrees warmer. I felt safe and snug and now it was going to just get better and better. My wet clothes came off and were piled on my pack outside. With a spare T-shirt I toweled myself off and dried my hair as best I could. Now into dry long johns.
All of this was done easily in the dark. Like a blind man, I knew the small world of my backpack and tent perfectly by touch. I began giggling and singing, so delighted was I with life. Now that I had dry clothes on, I laid out my mattress and sleeping bag, crawled on in, zipped up the bag…and felt warmth accumulating around my tired, cold body. And then — a chocolate bar! Then dinner with music provided by night rain pounding on the tent fly around me. I felt around for any leaks. None. Snug.
My soul sang like a child playing happily all alone. My body spontaneously wiggled in delight because it felt so good to stretch the tired muscles. Every now and then the sense of where I really was overwhelmed me — completely on my own (no one knew I was even in this part of Alaska), nestled beside a lake high on a trailless mountain wrapped in swirling storm clouds. With profound satisfaction, I fell asleep to the sound of heavy rain and gentle waves.
I surfaced occasionally during the night to the sound of heavier and heavier rain. Sometimes I felt around the tent, checking for possible leaks. Most times I simply smiled and drifted back to sleep.
I woke again and I could see. Day had come. Heavy rain still beat against the tent. If I had not reached the lake, I would probably be dead by now. But here I was. I opened the tent door but could see only a few feet through the storm clouds. Oh well, I wasn’t going anywhere today anyway. I contentedly snuggled back into my bag and dozed off again.
So went the day. Snoozes, stretches, snacks, a couple of brief sojourns outside, and more snoozes. My body, recovering from the hard hike, delighted in every stretch, growing stronger with every nap. Tomorrow afternoon the next ferry would leave. Would I be on it or would the weather keep me up here another couple of days? Day faded into night. Heavy rains returned. Ledge remained securely dry. I slept.
My consciousness rose from deep sleep to the sound of — nothing. The sound of rain I had heard for one and a half days had ceased. I opened my eyes to a tent glowing in bright light. I stretched my arms over my head, opened the tent door, and gazed up into blue; incredibly clear, rain-cleaned cloudless blue sky. I lay back and basked in delight.
When I realized that I would now finally be able to see the cirque lake in its glory, I scrambled out of the tent. Standing barefoot on soggy, green ground, I turned toward the lake and WHAM — pure white mountains. During the night, the rain had turned to snow. The snowline lay only twenty feet above my tent. Thirteen storm-freshened waterfalls plunged down the snow-covered headwalls into the lake. I walked up onto the ridge of gnarled trees; a cold strong wind hit me — the kind of cold wind from the polar regions that clears the air and mind. Everything had crystal clarity to it, the big lake far below and rising on its opposite shore, other mountains with snowlines cutting cleanly across them at the same elevation as the snowline just above me.
I had awakened into a world of dramatic beauty, the kind that inspires bold deeds. I hurriedly dressed (for the sun would soon be melting the snow), stuffed breakfast and canteen into my coat pocket, and started up the slope into adventure. My lake and tent receded below as I climbed the snowy slope through the bracing wind. I reached the ridge and followed it toward the summit. As I walked up along the ridgeline, I gazed down either side upon dramatically jagged scenery. The fresh snow transformed the scene to one I never expected to see alone. This is what climbing at 15,000 feet would look like, I imagined, and yet I was walking around in my tennis shoes in just an inch of snow. I reached the summit 2000 feet above my campsite. With breathtaking wind in my face and the sun behind me illuminating all before me, I ate breakfast. Slowly, peacefully I chewed as I gazed through the incredibly clear air at the intensely glaciated mountain wilderness stretching to the north horizon.
This is the edge. I often think of the edge as a boundary somewhere out there which, if you cross, you die. But the edge is also like standing on tip-toe in perfect balance within an elusive siren song. Keeping my vow had me standing a tip-toe on life.
Today on this fresh-snow-on-the-mountains, see-forever day, I was going to ride the ferry! Down the slope through the snow I danced to Ledge. Already the snowline had ascended several hundred feet above my camp. As I dried my gear in the warm sunlight, packed, and ate lunch, bald eagles rose past me. Hundreds of eagles stuffed from the salmon migration must have decided to take this glorious day off to go ridge soaring up the steep slopes. When I looked down into the valley, I could see their gleaming white heads and tails a thousand feet below. I watched as the strong wind lifted them from the valley floor, up the slope and passing me, sometimes only a few feet away. With broad set wings, they rose on up the mountains to the summits and views beyond.
I always turn around to say good-bye to campsites, but unlike most others, this dear one I knew I would never see again. Maybe someday I would camp in the valley below and look up toward the waterfall pouring from this lake, but I would never stand up here again. “Soar well, eagles. Farewell, lovely place. Thank you for a hike that will shine throughout my life.” I turned, crossed the lake’s outlet stream, and started down.
I boarded the ferry that afternoon and cruised past mountains sparkling with fresh snow and waterfalls surging with storm runoff. Air of intense clarity allowed the beauty to pass unfiltered into the eyes. The joy of keeping my invisible vow opened my spirit wider to that beauty.
We stopped briefly at Juneau for cars to get on and off. If I hadn’t kept that vow to myself, I would have cruised by Juneau two days earlier during that rain storm. I would not have gotten off the ferry. But with the freedom of the foot passenger, I got off in Juneau that beautiful evening to go see the Mendenhall Glacier. I got a ride from a lady who told me that she wasn’t sure but she thought there was a special ferry leaving very early the next morning on a once-a-year, university-sponsored field trip to Glacier Bay.
I watched the glow of the Mendenhall Glacier grow in the darkness as the full moon made it up over the mountains, then I walked back to the ferry terminal and slept in the parking lot. Gathering voices woke me in the late night. I went to the terminal and yes, for just $40, I could go on an all-day cruise to Glacier Bay with professors teaching. The freedom of the foot passenger allowed me to catch that cruise, see in the distance the solidly-white Fairweather Mountains towering 3 miles above the sea, and eventually enter Glacier Bay.
Two hundred years ago, a massive glacier filled all of Glacier Bay. Since then, that glacier has receded back into its tributary glaciers, exposing a sixty-mile length of bay flanked by granite ridges. Near the entrance of Glacier Bay, the land is green with forests. But as one sails up the bay, the forests disappear. The land has not been uncovered long enough for forests to grow back. The farther up the bay one sails, the more recently the land has been uncovered. There has been no time for life to cover the glacially rounded and smoothed surfaces with the colors of moss, flowers, or spruce needles.
For hours the ferry sailed past gray bedrock. No trees. Without the familiar scale that life provides, it was hard to know the size of this strange, rounded bulk of land. Were the mounds of bedrock just hills or were they mountains many thousands of feet high? The gigantic scale of Glacier Bay was so disorienting and the air so clear that when I was certain we were within a mile of Grand Pacific Glacier, we were still fifteen miles away.
Except for the blue sky above, the white of glaciers, and the dark water beneath, everything was gray like the mountains of the lifeless Moon. Seeing such an enormous bulk of naked bedrock, untouched, uncolored, unsoftened by life created an image of Earth before life. No softening green; just hard grey rock. What was the land like back then? How was it different from the world I know? How were flows different back then? How did the emergence of Life change the land? These questions, which would help change the direction of my life, emerged within this place, a place I never would have seen unless I had kept that vow to myself.
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