Crossing The Gates of Alaska:. Dave Metz
for about twelve more days, and that is if I hike all day every day. Emaciation will come quickly in those final few days as my broken-down body searches for more energy to fuel itself.
I left Kotzebue, Alaska, on March 26, about sixty days ago. I began by skiing out of town with the dogs pulling me, across the Hotham Inlet, and then up the Kobuk River to the village of Ambler. Then I turned up the Ambler River and skied to its headwaters. I abandoned my sleds and skis and hiked over the final pass to the Noatak River. From there I crossed over another mountain range to the Alatna River and followed it to its source. This is how I got to where I am now, and I’m miserably hungry. Most of my own food goes to my dogs, and I have not considered calling for a rescue yet. My intention is to continue east to the village of Anaktuvuk Pass, get more supplies, and hike to the town of Wiseman on the Dalton Highway. Right now, though, I grow desperate with hunger and exhaustion. The fear of starvation looms over me constantly and I am beginning to understand what a wretched death it would be.
My Airedale terriers are the long-legged type from very pure strains, and they embolden each other. They are young brothers just barely a year old. I also have an old rusty shotgun with two remaining shells. I never planned to hunt, but I never thought I would be starving, either. So when I encounter a rabbit on the lower Killik River I become excited. I unfasten the straps to my pack and let it fall to the ground where I stand. I unleash the dogs for the first time in days. Right away, they sprint off tracking the rabbit’s trail down the willow-laden riverbank. They need no prompting from me because hunting is in their blood. I know the rabbit will double back on his trail repeatedly until tiring. I step back away from the willows and out onto a gravel bar to get a better view of the river’s edge. The rabbit comes back through several times but I cannot get a safe shot. I’m confident the dogs will not lose the scent; they can track animals through water.
After several more passes the rabbit finally stops beside a bush, not knowing I’m near. I raise my gun swiftly until the bead on the end of the barrel lines up with the rabbit’s torso, and I fire. The shot reverberates across the valley as the rabbit topples to the ground. I run to where he falls, and because I’m so hungry, rejoice over the kill. A half hour later we get another rabbit. The dogs have earned their keep today. Tonight we will eat.
The next morning I chuck my shotgun, leaving it next to some willows. With no more shells, it has become a worthless hunk of wood and steel that I cannot carry. I need to have a lighter load. I must travel faster. I can’t stay here; no one ever comes here and food is scarce. I haven’t seen a human being since leaving the village of Ambler about forty days ago. At least I feel some added strength now and I play a little with the dogs. Then I take out all our beans and oats, and examine them. I consolidate the packages and then burn the extra wrappers. Then I divide my portion from the dogs’ and carefully put all the food away into four separate, plastic bags. We will each have only one small meal a day, but at least we will be able to eat something. On the final day I figure we will have a cup and a half of lentil beans to share between the three of us, and then all our food will be gone.
I hoist my pack onto my back, buckle my straps, and tie the dogs’ leash to my chest strap so they will not run off and burn more calories than they have to. I look back towards the upper Killik River; however, I cannot see its source. I can see the pass I came over quite clearly, though. I turn back and look forward. Then I step out feeling strong, knowing that whatever happens, I will walk until I drop and am not able to get back up again. After twenty minutes I make the great sweeping turn onto Easter Creek and scan the eastern horizon with reverence, and some fear; I’m impressed by its grandeur, yet afraid that I cannot get across it. The land is enormous and so beautifully empty. The sun is already up, sitting over the starkly outlined peaks and rolling expanse of tundra that appear to be from a different, gigantic world. I walk on with deliberate and efficient steps over the tussock-filled plain and into the wild void beyond. I say to the dogs to lift their spirits, “We’ll make it, pups. We’ll make it.”
CLOSE TO PARADISE
Drift Creek Wilderness is about as close to paradise as you can get in this world. It’s a large patch of ancient rain forest in the Coast Range of Oregon, located about ten miles from the ocean. It’s perpetually bathed in mist and cool air. I’m drawn there by the immensity of the trees that hide the intricate network of animal paths leading throughout the forest. I like to follow them as if I’m part of something greater than I can fully understand. Its natural antiquity draws out my most innate moods and thoughts. They are moods and thoughts that are stifled in a city, but they come to the surface when I’m in the woods and need to survive there. I cannot pin down their origin and purpose, but they make me feel light-headed and in perfect tune with my body and the world around me, like I belong in wilderness.
Enormous cedar and fir trees, with diameters up to several feet, tower like rapturous cathedrals throughout the ravines and along the ridges. Red alders flourish in places where the soil has been disturbed, and their fallen limbs make lightweight hiking sticks. I like to use them on my ascents out of the creek valley on the way home, only to toss them back on the ground when I near the end of the trail. Big leaf maples also grow on the valley floor, with more plant life sprouting from the tree surface itself. Often the mosses are so thick on these trees that you can’t see the bark anywhere. Sometimes I rest under them when it rains since their large branches offer a dry shelter, and the ground underneath is oft en soft with withered leaves.
Devil’s club grows eight feet tall underneath the canopy where shade dominates the forest floor. The shrub was an important medicinal plant to aboriginal people, and the red berries that give the plant its distinctive character ripen into the shape of a pyramidal fist. I’m careful not to get the tiny thorns that stick out all along the stems embedded into my skin as I move past. But I usually end up with a few anyway.
In June when the salmon berries ripen to the size of Ping-Pong balls, I try to get there before the black bears eat them all. The stems of sword ferns and the leafy-green wood sorrel can be eaten as survival food in winter when other plants are scarce, though they don’t have much sustenance. The ferns take a lot of effort to dig up and the wood sorrel contains an acid that will make your stomach ache if you eat too much, like eating too many green apples. In fall chanterelle mushrooms speckle the forest floor, but they are hard to notice from a distance, often mistaken for decaying orange leaves. Your eyes learn to zero in on them the longer you’re there.
Some species of plants and animals in Drift Creek are so poisonous that ingesting just a few ounces will cause certain death. One example is baneberry. With its few bright red, glossy berries, it’s unmistakable and virtually always unmolested by any animal, even bears, yet it looks fleshy and as palatable as the fabled fruit in the Garden of Eden. And the rough-skinned newt, which contains the same poison produced in the gonads of many puff er fish, is so deadly that you must wash your hands after you handle one. In the spring and fall after the cool rains come, hordes of amphibians become more active, especially newts. I have to be careful not to step on them as they cruise the forest floor at their somnolent pace.
Thousands of bright orange crayfish crawl along the creek bed like miniature titans, and raccoons stake out their places along the creek to feed on them. The raccoons can often be seen waddling down the bend away from you, leaving shell parts to clutter the bottom of the creek. Cutthroat trout lie in deep bubbly pockets of the creek, and Chinook salmon come charging up the currents in the fall to spawn and die. It’s amazing how such a giant fish can navigate such a small creek. And when they die, their rich, rotting tissue invigorates the soil making it possible for more life to flourish.
I’ve spent a lot of time in Drift Creek, so I don’t need to take maps or a light anymore to find my way around. Sometimes at the end of the day when darkness falls and I’m still a mile or two from the end of the trail, I can find my way by memory and sound, even when I’m not on a trail. I will walk down the ridge from the south side, cross the creek, and follow the trail to the north edge of the wilderness area. Then I return by bushwhacking down Trout Creek, slithering and twisting around the many vines and fallen logs as softly as I can. At times I will stop to climb a tall, straight tree if there is still daylight, to see where I am and to work the muscles of my back and legs. Drift Creek Wilderness is a good place to test yourself and learn how to move through a wild