;)
On Monday morning, I wrote in here that I had a great deal to do before I leave for Greenland early Friday and would likely post lightly all week. Shortly after I made that post, I was thinking about all that I face and all that I must do. I thought, too, of the summer that I have always imagined that I will one day take - the summer that I don't really travel that far from home, but just spend the entire time living as I see fit - hiking, canoeing, camping, working my way into the mountains, up and down the rivers and sometimes perhaps out onto the ocean waters to snatch up a halibut, to ride a wave by surfboard.
And flying of course, always flying, because this is country that one must fly about to really see. And I just love to fly.
Not so long ago, I had imagined that I might make this summer half-way that - get some good work that would take me out into the field and spend half the summer doing that, then spend the other half wandering about this area, doing just as I have described above and blogging about it.
The latter part was all fantasy. That surfing trip I was going to take to Yakutak on my birthday, July 14?
It ain't going to happen. I've just got to get out there and work my tail off if we are to survive. Once I leave for Greenland, I expect to be traveling into the fall, with only short breaks at home and little time for play.
Fortunately, I love the work that I do, but still, sometimes, I just want to get out and play and make my play my work. And I don't see any good reason why I shouldn't be able to, but I just can't seem to make it happen.
Yet, the weather was beautiful Monday. With all that I needed to do before I leave for Greenland, with all the burdens that now sit atop me, some of which readers may have an idea about and at least one, big, huge, one that they don't, which I will one day write up but can't just yet, I decided to take advantage of this one, beautiful, day, chuck all my responsibilities and go take a walk up in the Talkeetna Mountains.
As I had but one afternoon, I chose a trailhead of easy access - Gold Mint, in the Hatcher Pass area.
So I drove there, parked my car and hit the trail.
This is what I saw before me as I started to walk. As you can see, it is country of the most wild and dangerous nature, ready to smite down the ill-prepared and weak at a moment's notice, without mercy.
It is the kind of Alaska country in which only the toughest, most fit and daring of individuals dare tread, because it will surely kill the weak and unsavy.
I had gone but a few hundred yards when I saw these tough, fit, daring, intrepid individuals coming in the opposite direction.
"Sorry to ruin your picture," one of the young mothers apologized.
"You didn't ruin it," I assured her. "You gave it human perspective."
The fact is, I would not have even taken it had they not appeared to be in it.
Soon, I came upon another group of people with children and a toddler in a stroller, walking ahead of me.
I quickly overtook and passed them. After I passed, I turned, introduced myself, told them about this blog and how to find it and shot a couple of photos. It turns out this was the Wilkins and the Wilsons and maybe a couple of other names thrown in, too. They live right here in Wasilla, but this was was their first time ever to hike the Gold Mint Trail. They planned to reach the two-mile post and then turn around.
I wonder if they made it?
Before it reaches the two mile marker, the trail narrows and steepens and many rocks protrude from it. It could be a challenge to push or drag a baby stroller up it.
Still, I have no doubt at all that if Jake had set out to take Kalib to the two mile-post when he was in a stroller, he would have done so. In fact, I think maybe he did, when I was recovering from my shoulder injury and unable to accompany them on such a hike.
A bit further up, I met a dog coming the other way. The dog is Kiska and, according to her human, has made many hikes up Gold Mint and will in the future as well. She wanted me to make certain that readers understood that Kiska is an Alaskan Malemute - not a husky.
She doesn't like it when people mistake her Malemute for a husky.
So here she is, Kiska, the Alaskan Malemute, frequent hiker of the Gold Mint Trail.
About a mile or so up, there is a beaver damn with two beaver houses, one large and one small, built in the placid waters behind it. When I came around the corner where that dam and pond come into view, a husky stood atop the largest house.
The husky was traveling with two other dogs and a small group of humans.
If I had been carrying one of my DSLR's, I could have taken a picture of that husky atop the beaver house, but by the time I could pull my pocket camera out of my pocket, turn it on and then wait for it to cycle itself into shooting mode, the husky had jumped off the house, swam to the shore and then all three dogs were bouncing about all around me and against me and all were soaking wet.
They shook their fur and sprayed me with water. I had to protect my camera, but I did manage to shoot this frame.
As one moves forward up Gold Mint, the trail grows ever steeper and more narrow, and people fewer. So I hiked on, listening to the calls of birds. Then I heard the sound of distant jets, roaring mysteriously from high in the sky. I scanned the patches of blue ahead of where the sound seemed to originate and then I spotted these four jets, seen here as tiny white specks, zipping towards the clouds.
If I had had one of my big DSLR's and a good telephoto, it would have made a really neat picture.
But I had chosen to keep the hike light and simple, and so had only the pocket camera. As much as I would have liked to have gotten that good picture of these four military jets appearing so white, up in the blue, racing toward white, I don't regret my decision.
Even the best photo is only impression of the instant that appeared before the camera.
This photo is an impression of the impression that I might have captured had I been with better equipment. As such an impression, it will do just fine.
I hiked on until finally I was far enough up the trail that I quit seeing so many people and dogs and no babies in strollers at all. Don't misunderstand - I am very happy for all those people to be able to come out and enjoy, same as me, and I love the fact that there are parents who love their children enough to take them out and expose them to the country even when they are tiny and in strollers.
Still, I like solitude, and solitude is what I sought.
Soon I had it.
Solitude.
My mind went over many things. It wrestled with many problems. It put those problems into a different perspective than it would have, had I stayed down below. There is one project that I have already put considerable time and effort into, over a period of years, but had pretty much decided was worthless, going nowhere, and that I might as well waste no more time on it.
In the midst of this solitude, as my muscles worked and the fresh mountain air flooded my lungs and invigorated my blood, a new approach to that project came into my head. I decided to give it another go.
Not complete solitude. Somewhere between mile posts four and five, I came upon Kate, another seeker of solitude. She had ascended, and now she was descending.
As you can see, the clouds are gathering and thickening.
Not far beyond Kate, I came to a place where the trail comes right to the edge of the creek, which readers already know much further downstream as the Little Susitna River.
I decided that I wanted to take a picture of a certain mountain from a very low angle, with my camera held just above the surface of the flowing water.
So I positioned myself among some rocks at the edge of the creek, leaned over a fairly large one, braced myself, reached out, and concentrated on positioning my camera just above the water without getting it wet.
As I concentrated on this task, I heard the sound of footsteps in the rocks, coming toward me, toward the creek. I heard a laugh. I did not turn to look, but kept my concentration on my task.
Then I heard a female voice say, "Oops! I don't want to ruin your picture."
"You won't ruin my picture," I said. "Just go ahead and do whatever you want to do."
"Okay," she said and she did.
Finally, I looked up from my camera and saw this 20-year old woman, Kelly, filling her water bottle. Once she had filled it, she stood up and we chatted for one minute, maybe less, then she left to catch up with her two friends.
I returned to my photo, but I like the one of Kelly filling her water bottle better. In fact, the one I worked so hard to get proved to be pretty worthless, so I didn't bother to include it here.
By the time that I had passed Mile Post 5, I could see rain in the clouds ahead. I knew that rain was going to get me. I didn't really care. I'd rather stay dry, but if I got wet, even if I got soaked and cold, I would still complete the hike, I would be okay and it would just be part of the experience.
I saw a flying bug land upon a white flower. I stopped to take a picture. As I did, I felt a raindrop fall upon my neck.
Soon, it was raining and the rain fell hard. In the six months since Melanie and Charlie gave it to me, this poor little s90 pocket camera that I have kept with me at all times has taken one heck of a beating. The mechanics remain good, but the optical qualities are diminishing, because the lens surface is so tiny, so impossible to properly clean.
I did not want to damage it further, so I shut it off and tucked it safely into my pocket, then hiked on, through the rain. It was cold, but my body was hot from the hiking. I did not mind the feel of cold rain striking me.
In a bit, the intensity of the rain dropped off. I saw three people ahead of me. They appeared to have stopped to wait out the downfall. I was quite certain one was Kelly.
Sure enough, it was Kelly. She was with her friend, Allison, age 25 and Matt, 26. They are all from Anchorage, but all have hiked in this area a number of times before. They were relieved to see that the rain was easing off, and that nothing bad seemed to be following it.
They had decided that this was as far as they would hike. Now they were going to turn back.
I knew that I had to turn around soon, too, but I wanted to reach Mile Post 6, so that I could make a good 12 mile hike out of the day.
They told me to have fun and we parted company - they going downhill, me up.
As I climbed further, I got to where the bushes crowded the trail. The bushes had captured much of the rain in their leaves and branches and were now like paintbrushes, painting me and my clothing, especially my Levi's, with rain water.
I finally decided that I had been painted enough; I knew Mile Post 6 - assuming Mile Post 6 had been planted - had to be very close. I had already spent considerably more time walking from Mile Post 5 than I had between any other two Mile Posts.
I looked at the trail ahead of me. The water laden bushes pressed hard against it.
I decided that was good enough. I turned around and headed back.
A ways down the trail, I stopped at a beaver dam. A beaver came out and splashed the water for me.
Somewhere between Mile Posts 5 and 4, I decided to eat my lunch. Peanut Butter and honey. It was good. I drank down a bottle of water, and finished off some gummy cherry candies that I had also brought. I did not eat my apple, because this was enough to cause me to feel full.
Somewhere between Mile Posts Three and Two, I came upon this fellow, Stafford, pausing to rest with his bicycle. It must be a pretty hard grind, I commented, pushing a bike up this mountain trail. Yes, he said, but the coming down part was so easy, fast and fun that it was worth it.
I imagined what could happen if one lost control of bike coming down some of the steep, rocky places.
"I imagine it gets kind of scary sometimes, too," I said.
"I've got good brakes," he said. "You've got to have good brakes."
"How far are you going?" I asked.
"Until 7:00," he said. "Then I am going to turn around."
I looked at the clock on my iPhone. There is no reception up here, but the iPhone clock still works - as does the compass. He had less than 20 minutes to go.
As I walked along somewhere between Mile Posts 2 and one, Stafford suddenly came flying by me. "Eight minutes from just above mile 3 to here!" he shouted. "That's why I bring my bike up!" He disappeared.
I must try it one day.
Shortly after that, I came to the bridge that spans the Little Su. This meant that I was almost to the parking lot - yet, my severely out of shape body and legs had grown tired and weary. It felt like that parking lot was still a long ways away.
When I came to this broad, graveled stretch of trail, my mind knew the hike was almost over. Yet, in some ways, this was the hardest part. I knew that as soon as I went around the turn you see ahead, I would see the outhouse, and beyond that the parking lot and my car.
It didn't feel like it, though. It felt like I had miles and miles to go. It felt as though I could walk and walk and walk and never round that corner and see the parking lot.
Yet, I did round that corner. Right there in front of me was the outhouse, and just beyond that, the parking lot. And there was my red Ford Escape.
Sitting between me and the Ford Escape was this young couple and their dog, Ambrosias. They called me over to talk. They wanted to know how far I had hiked, and what they might expect to find if they went hiking the same way.
So I told them and then I drove home, where Margie fed me left-overs from Father's Day - fried chicken, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes and strawberry short cake.
I hate to admit it, but I am growing old. I will be 60 in less than a month. When will I get the chance to live always as I want, on my own terms, hiking, boating, canoeing, flying, moving about the country?
Should that time ever come, will I still be young enough, strong enough, to do it?
Yet, I am fortunate. Given all the things that have happened to her health wise, including her series of broken knees, this kind of thing is impossible for my wife. She will never experience a day such as I had here again.
So I am fortunate, yet unfortunate, for I wish Margie could sometimes experience it with me.
Not always. Sometimes, I just like to venture out alone. But there are times when I would really like to have her with me, but she can never come along.
Note: Thinking it might be a neat thing to allow viewers who want to be able to see the images from a post in a slide show, I created one in Squarespace's gallery feature. Unfortunately, the Squarespace interface does not have the tools to make it look nice, but the link below will take you to it such as it is. Perhaps in the future, if I can learn enough about CSS, I might be able to make nicer looking slide shows.
Here is the link to this first, crude, attempt: