Caroline first wakes me due to a call of nature, quickly followed by someone walking near our tent as if they were looking for the unit (toilet) as well. Maybe an hour later, Frank is earning his nickname by calling out over camp, “FIRST LIGHT!” meaning the sun has struck a nearby peak. Time to put the mobile hotel room away. I’m still in the tent when Caroline brings me my first cup of coffee and reports that Thirsty is in the kitchen making blueberry pancakes and bacon. The sleeping bags and pads are quickly put back into dry bags and are being shoved out of the tent so we can start taking them down.
It’s a bit cold out here this morning, enough so that we can see each other’s breath. Before long, we are back on the water, and the sky is clearing.
Up ahead is the confluence of the Kaskawulsh and Dezadeash rivers, where their combined flows become the Alsek. At the center of the horizon at the water level is a tan patch of ground that we are aiming to stop at for a short break. I should point out that the water level is a lot higher than when Caroline and I came down this river five years ago, not that this matters for what happens next. We should always be paying attention when on remote adventures and when on high water, which means that currents are moving faster, we have to be incredibly alert. Apparently, I could have been more attuned to the situation because as we approached the landing and I prepared to step off the raft with the tie-up rope, the current rotated us about a quarter of an inch or just enough that instead of landing on solid ground I slipped down the submerged cut-bank and I found myself sinking quickly into 34-degree water. Looking for a hand to help me get out of the ice bath I was undertaking, I was able to grab hold of the raft before the water level reached my bottom, and with the help of others, I was quickly back in the boat. All I could do was empty my boots, wring out my socks and liners, and accept the feeling of sheepishness that such a dumb mistake happened.
The view may look similar to the previous photo, but we are now officially on the Alsek River, which is truly big today. Along the way, we found some shallow water, so shallow that we scraped the bottom, and our raft pivoted around the spot that was caught. One always hopes that the raft will simply let go and resume traveling, as getting out of the raft in the water is never desirable. It remained cold out on this braided river right up to the point we landed for lunch.
With our stop came a bit more sun which helped to warm the breeze. We were here about an hour and a half before taking off again down the river. While here, in addition to lunch, we explored the area; some went for a short hike, and others took a nap. Lunch was sandwiches of turkey or roast beef, chips, cookies, and orange slices.
This may not be a great scenic view for anyone other than geologists, but it is one of the many less-than-photogenic details we find ourselves staring at while going down the river. The earth here is far more active than in the cities we live in, which is easily witnessed by the many rock slides, fading and surging glaciers, changing river beds, and this torn-apart cliffside. There’s a story in those layers of rock that tells of the materials that were laid down and what kind of events were going on over the course of their development, but that will remain a secret today as that geologist who could decipher this was not on the river with us on this day nor with me as I write this.
On the left of this image is the cliffside I posted above; as you can see, as a part of the larger view, it can be a spectacular part of the landscape. From here, we’ll find a shore that looks conducive to collecting wood for tonight’s fire. Once we have enough, we wrap up three bundles and mount them on the rafts as a kind of river hood ornament and hope they don’t fall off. Sure, they are tied down, but they bounce a lot, and I often find myself wondering just when one will fall into the river. The clouds remain all around us with scattered blue patches, but where the sun burns through, it goes far to warm the day and make us cozy as we meander downstream.
The boatmen remain vigilant, looking for the right channel to take us downriver. With enough flow, the current does much of the work and makes the rowing easier. This can be foiled by a strong headwind. If you’ve been on a couple of river trips, you’ve heard the stories of rafters needing hours to make progress when rowing into fierce headwinds just to make a mile before giving up and getting off the river. I’m hesitant to mention my sciatica because acknowledging it may only make it worse. I can’t blame it on the dip into the river earlier in the day because I was feeling it flare up a couple of days before, but now it’s starting to make itself known. There’s a level of discomfort in standing and walking; nothing to do out here but grin and bear it.
I’ve looked over at Caroline a hundred times today and caught a smile from her an equal number of times. Her smile inspires me to send her one in return. There must be something about a woman in green rubber that is especially appealing to me. The silty water glistens behind her, and the wind whips her hair about her face; she looks especially cute at these moments. She helps row with one of the small paddles and occasionally appears to get lost, staring deep into the water. I can’t help but appreciate how Caroline helps shoulder my load, making every effort to make my trip all the better; such is life with the occasional bad back. Time for me to help paddle into the wind.
This is Steve Alt, a.k.a. Sarge. He’s the reason this particular group of travelers has made this journey. About a year before, he contacted a bunch of people and asked if we’d like to join him in celebration of his 70th birthday out on the Alsek. Caroline and I met Sarge the day before we put in on the Colorado River back in 2010 he was the first person from that trip we met. He introduced himself and said we looked like people who were about to raft the mighty Colorado through the Grand Canyon; he was right about that. Sarge gets his nickname from the time served in Vietnam as a Marine. We also rafted the Yampa River in Utah with him. Sarge has a river buddy in Frank, a.k.a. First Light. These two seem inseparable when it comes to rivers, and it probably also has something to do with both having been Marines. We were nervous Sarge might not make this trip as he was having some serious knee issues earlier in the year, but here he is, big grin and all.
When you are out here traveling only a little faster than the current, this all speeds by too fast. While Caroline and I will take some years off from looking at these images, when we do return to them on some random occasion, they will be welcome reminders of an adventure we took. Although we find ourselves in the pictures, we are incredulous that we have been so lucky to have done something so extraordinary. These notes I take on the river add to the narrative’s details that photos alone cannot capture: how incredible our lives are that we can leave ourselves these breadcrumbs to spark our memories of the amazing moments we’ve been able to share.
This is the south end of a beach that is fully submerged and where we would be parked for the night. The last time Caroline and I were here, Bruce, who was on that trip too, had to fix a leaky raft at this very spot. Having already stayed at this location on that previous trip, it is perfectly okay with us that we find a new campsite, and so we paddle on; plus, who wants to sleep in the water?
A great example of a cut bank and likely very similar to what was hidden by the water yesterday when I stepped out of the boat and couldn’t find the ground.
Tonight’s campsite is at latitude: 60.471250 and longitude: -137.814066 – thanks, Jill, for those exact location details. With the elevation at 1758 feet above sea level, we are 138 feet lower than we were the night before; by the end of the trip, we’ll be a mere 16 feet above sea level. The raft configuration you see in this photo is the “just emptied the rafts, and the boatmen are taking a pow-wow” kind of thing. This happens almost every night and is often accompanied by libations in honor of the river. The rest of us are off setting up our tent, taking a bath in ice water, reading, or having a drink ourselves.
Shadows drift across the mountain peaks, moving almost as slowly as the landscape changes. The sun glistens in a blinding glare on the fast-flowing river that is nearly silent save for the wind-driven ripples creating small waves that make gentle crashing sounds. It’s summer, and it feels like it with wildflowers in abundance, along with the flies, mosquitos, and the ants that call this camp their permanent home. Occasionally, someone walks by the bright, sparkling water, and only their silhouette can be seen. Everything is wrapped in beauty here during the golden hour.
We rehash our lives, explain who we are, and try to find some common ground. We start with our careers, move to sports or television, and turn to our kids or grandchildren. We seem to have a poverty of language to discuss where we are and describe what we are witnessing. Maybe it’s that the experience is too far beyond what is in our normal reality and that the ability to codify these infinite moments cannot be expected of people who live such diametrically different lives than the one being lived on a river. Ailments and politics are the next subjects of the conversation du jour; in this environment, they are as banal as the previous subjects.
What about exploring the quiet? Or exploring our sense of what nature means to us and this relationship with the spectacular feeling like a symbiosis that demands we return again and again? Or is the gravity of our time here too heavy to look within because, in comparison, we are too insignificant?
Dinner came and went, but before everyone could drift off to sleep, the dishes must be done. Before leaving our home states and countries, Frank and Sarge had made it clear that they would be doing the dishes and that there would be no arguing that point. So here they are doing just that, like they did the night before, and will do so for the next ten days. With that out of the way, it was time to sit around the fire once more.
Today was timeless. The world as we know it happened, and up until a few minutes ago things were occurring because they were supposed to as ordained by nature. Now it’s getting late; I only know that because someone felt compelled to share what time it was, although some of us came out here not wanting to know such details. The sun is just below the horizon; this could be interpreted as a sunset. Some people have started heading off to sleep. Caroline is chatting with Keith while knitting my next pair of socks. Willie, Frank, and Sarge are also chatting, but Frank departs the group, and the other two will follow shortly. Stephen is packing up his luxury chair; more about that later. Echo and Bruce head to their tent, and Pauly is nowhere to be found. I hate to admit it, but I’m tired too. Time to give in to time.
