Alaska: Day 8: 7-13-93: Denali - Mt. Healy Hiking Misadventure

What a day! As of 6:00 p.m., I would have written it off as my most mundane thus far. But that was to change . . . and how! But I digress. Let's take it from the top:

Dave and I awoke at about 8:30 a.m. We whipped up an egg breakfast, packed for the trip and waited for the rest of the road crew (Dan, Roz and Marce), all of whom arrived at approximately 10:00. The lot of us piled into a rented white Oldsmobile and cruised to the nearest supermarket. After much price comparison and compromising galore (we all had different likes/dislikes, naturally), we ultimately assembled our 4-day food supply. Then we hopped back in the car and headed for Denali.

It was another perfect day weather-wise, and the drive was scenic and pleasant. During the course of the four hour trip, I finished Kindergarten, and all five of us played Ghost (Note: Ghost, for the uninitiated, is a spelling game in which one person names a letter and each person, in turn, must add an additional letter -- either at the beginning or end of the other letters -- without completing an actual word. But here's the kicker: you must always have a real word in mind when you add a letter -- i.e. you better be careful if you add a letter on a stone cold bluff or just to avoid finishing a word -- because at any time, the person after you can say "Bullshit" [or "I do believe you are bluffing" if kids or Grandma are playing], and you have to name the word you were working towards or suffer the consequences. Said consequences are the same for forming a word, being caught in a bluff or "bullshitting" someone who isn't bluffing: the first time you get a "g", the next time an "h" and so on, until you are "ghost"ed out of the game. Eventually, only one player will remain and is declared the winner). About halfway through our journey, we stopped at a lodge which offered a spectacular view of Mt. McKinley (I was pleasantly surprised to see it at all -- apparently, or so I'd been told, the mountain is shrouded by clouds about 75% of the time). I snapped obligatory photos, and we continued on.

When we arrived at the Denali Visitor's Center, I was quite disturbed by the way the state park is managed. After waiting on line for the better part of an hour(!), we were disheartened to learn that all the park run events (i.e. all the fun things) were booked up for today and most of tomorrow. No guided hikes, no wildlife bus tours -- Hell, we weren't even allowed to step foot into the park proper yet. Begrudgingly, we signed up for the last remaining hike tomorrow (and even then, we could only secure 4 tickets!) and a bus tour on Thursday.

By the time the paperwork was dispensed with, it was approaching 6:00 p.m. Dave and I refused to sit around scratching our asses until tomorrow's hike, so we decided to take one of the Park's few accessible unguided trails and walk 2.5 miles from the Denali Park Hotel to the summit of Mt. Healy. Our three companions were going to do a shorter hike and then meet us with the car at 10:00 p.m., at which point we'd drive to our cabin and share a late dinner. It sounded simple enough -- I mean, what could go wrong, right?! Well, as you are about to learn, "the best laid plans . . . "

The journey started out tame enough. We stomped to the back of the hotel to a sign that said "Mt. Healy Trail ---->". We followed the arrow and were on our way (Little did we know then that the trail marker was one of the last signs of civilization we would see for quite some time). It began as a pleasant, easy walk, but we soon encountered some problems. We came to several crossroads, and, inevitably, we kept picking the ones that brought us through thick thickets and then petered out. We finally returned to the path which we believed (alas, erroneously) led to the top of Healy Mountain, but after an hour we surmised we weren't going up the mountain, but skirting around it. Our fears were confirmed when the trail came to an abrupt halt at a roadway. I was really dejected (and slightly pissed) -- after all, I was craving a real adventure, and the trail had been an unqualified dud.

Well, we figured, the situation could be easily rectified and our hike salvaged -- all we had to do was take a look at our handy-dandy official Denali Park Trail Map (which we had eschewed up to now due to male pride: certainly, Great Outdoorsmen such as ourselves didn't need no stinkin' maps!). A quick look at my watch revealed it was only 7:30, so we still had 2 1/2 hours to find and hike the real trail. Unfortunately, we soon ascertained that our map was severely lacking in utility -- the trail lines were ambiguous and there were no landmarks nor even (I couldn't believe it!) a simple arrow pointing North. Evidently, the "map" was just a visual aid showcasing the trails, as the lack of landmarks, a scale or a compass rendered it useless as a navigational guide.

This left us with 2 choices: we could follow the road, which, presumably, would eventually bring us (deflated and frustrated) back to the hotel, or we could try to find the correct trail on our own (which held, at least, the possibility of adventure). Had we chosen the former, the story would end here, and this would be one of my shortest journal entries ever. Luckily, for you, intrigued reader, we chose the latter. Not such a good choice for us, however, as we shall see.

We backtracked to the trail we had taken and followed one fork after another, each one becoming increasingly meandrous and overgrown. I'll cut to the chase -- within minutes, we got hopelessy fuckin' lost. Even with perpetual sunlight and a Swiss Army compass to guide us, without a proper map, we had no clue which way to go -- Lewis and Clark, we were not (more like Lewis and Martin!). To make matters worse, it was now 8:00 p.m., and we didn't have much time to dawdle if we planned on rendezvousing at the appointed time. What's more, the right knee which I had injured in Glacier Bay and Juneau was hurting more than ever. Hiking aimlessly was no longer an option. It was time to come up with a better plan. Finally, after much discussion, we settled on the only logical course of action: since we couldn't see where we had to go on a map, we needed to literally SEE where we had to go. The only way to spy the park's hotel was to ascend to a higher vantage point. This meant climbing the mountain without the convenience of a trail (it seemed we were going to get our adventure after all -- and more than even we had bargained for!).

Thus, slowly but surely, my knee on fire the whole way, I slogged for an hour through forest and scratchy brush (in shorts, no less) up the side of the mountain. The last few hundred yards we had to navigate a dangerously steep, scree-laden slope. We slipped and slid like silly on the sand, silt and slate. For a while, it seemed like the old cliche', "one step forward, two steps back." Finally, we reached the top, pumping our fists in victory as we labored to catch our breath. The view was indescribable (though, alas, it did not include a discernable hotel) and we took many pictures.

---------------------------------Okay, Where To Now?!-------------------------------

Exploring the summit, we discovered various electrical equipment and some kind of storage shed (it resembled a large walk-in refrigerator). It was unlocked, so, of course, I went inside. Amongst all the anonymous equipment stored inside was a label which said, Eastern Mount Healy. "Well, I'll be damned," I thought, "we found it after all" (At least we were still on the right mountain. But mountains are pretty big. For all we knew, perhaps we were supposed to be on Western Mount Healy. So the question remained, how far off course were we?).

Roughly a quarter mile away, we spotted another, even higher peak, and we decided to make our leisurely way over to it (There was no need to rush anymore -- it was already 9:00, and we had resigned ourselves to the fact that we would never make it back to the hotel by 10:00 to meet the others. We could only hope they waited for us or left word). My knee held out, and after another precarious ascent (with enough "slip-sliding away" to rival Paul Simon), we made it to the apex. On this peak, I caught my first glimpse of wildlife (a small, grey rodent-like creature called a pika) and Dave found two eagle feathers (one of which he gifted to me). More importantly, we now spotted two structures down in the valley, one of which just had to be the hotel. We reckoned it was the bigger one, and chose it as our goal. Rejoicing, we made a "feast" of our inadequate supplies (2 granola bars and some H2O -- in our defense, we had neither expected to be traveling this long nor undergoing this much physical exertion). The celebration was short lived, however -- for, as comforting as it was to have a firm destination, we realized it was so very far away. The return hike promised to be long, arduous and (with my bum knee) downright painful. Once again, we would have to navigate our way through trees, thorny shrubs, chilly creeks and scattered moose droppings. Only this time, we would be more achy & exhausted, and we would not have any food or water to reenergize ourselves. To make matters worse, we were out of insect repellant, and the mosquitoes had started coming out in full force (they were mercilessly attacking us in swarms the entire trip back -- I'm still covered in painfully itchy swollen bumps as I write this 24 hours later). Wallowing in self-pity was a luxury we could ill afford, however, so we sucked it up and set off.

It was a slow, agonizing journey, as branches scratched, mosquitoes bit and hunger & thirst overwhelmed (our hiking metabolisms burned off [and sweated out] our meagre mountaintop snack within a few miles). What's more, as we descended and lost our heightened view, we naturally lost visual contact with our destination -- although we were fairly hopeful that we were going the right way (we were following a creek which had seemed to lead back down near the hotel), we couldn't be 100% certain, and each soggy, throbbing, blood-sucked step made us that more unsure. For a while, I truly entertained the bleak notion that we would be wandering the wilderness for days. It wasn't all doom and gloom, though. For instance, we were somewhat serendipitous in that it wasn't raining or bitterly cold or dark (I gave silent thanks and praise for the Midnight [or at least, 11:00 p.m.] Sun, for darkness might have forced us to stop for the night and attempt to sleep out in the open). Plus, I did manage to salvage one pleasant memory from the return trip: at one point, we made an accidental discovery of wild blueberry bushes, which we ate greedily and with childlike glee.

Finally, around 12:15, our battered senses made out signs of civilization: we cheered the sight of water pipes and concrete dams, the not-so-distant sound of car horns and the faint smell of exhaust fumes (yes, I actually found myself rejoicing over carbon monoxide!). A little further on, we heard a radio close by, and we knew we were saved. We climbed out of the creek bed, up a hillside and found a road -- Thank God! We rushed down the road to an assembly of cars, tents and other human beings. We shouted an earnest hello to those beautiful strangers, before rounding a bend that revealed our Nirvana -- the Denali National Park Hotel. As I leaned against a signpost to catch my breath, Dave looked at the sign and broke out in a fit of laughter. I looked up, and though my hand obscured some of the writing, "nt Healy Trail --->" was clearly visible.

In the name of all that is Holy, this should be the end of the tale. It was now well after midnight, and we were understandably drained from our 6-hour ordeal. Surely, we'd be in our cabin, sleeping soundly, before we knew it, right? Sorry Charlie! (and don't call me Shirley). The Never-ending Story continues . . .

We went to the front of the hotel, gave a perfunctory look for our friends (not surprisingly, they weren't there -- we were over two hours late, after all) and entered the building. Luckily, there was still one clerk closing up for the night. I related our woeful tale and asked if there were any messages for us (there weren't). Hmm. We told the lady we were staying at the "Grizzly Bear Cabins" and asked if she could help us contact our friends so they could come pick us up. She wasn't particularly sympathetic to our plight and abruptly replied, "phone's over there." When I told her I didn't have the telephone number and inquired if she might have it, she added gruffly, "there are phonebooks there, too." No wonder "Miss Sweetness" worked the midnight shift! I didn't dare ask her for change, so I bummed a quarter from Dave and went to the phone bank. I let my fingers do the walking through the Yellow Pages, growing increasingly frustrated as my searches through "Hotels," "Motels," "Cabins," and "Campgrounds" all came up empty. Losing patience, I called information and finally got the number. I called the cabins, but got no answer (I guess it was Pollyannaish of me to hope the office was still open). Dave said he thought it was "only" a five mile walk to the campgrounds.

Jesus wept.

We both agreed we should stop at the hotel bar to adequately nourish and numb ourselves for the journey. The kitchen was closed for the night (natch), so we had to be content filling our empty bellies with Alaskan Amber and the last two dinky bags of stale pretzels. As we downed our drinks, we told the bartender of our destination, and he casually informed us it was more like eight miles. We ordered another round. Then we reluctantly got off the stools and tightened the laces on our hiking boots.

Once again, we only had a vague idea of where we needed to go. We knew we had to find Route 3, but didn't know how to get there. Another "immensely helpful" park map showed that the nearby railroad track intersected with the highway a couple miles down. Any plan that involved walking on railroad tracks certainly sounded foolproof to me, so we went with it.

Walking on top of the tracks was strangely exciting. I felt like a kid again, although I had never done it as a kid. I think it was a sense of wonder as to where the tracks might lead us combined with a fear of getting run over. The adrenaline-pumping highlight of the trip was following the tracks over a bridge, which provided no escape if a train chose exactly that moment to come chugging along (I was instantly reminded of a similar scene in Stand By Me). Eventually, we saw Rt. 3 below and walked down the embankment.

Now we still had about 6 miles to go and our legs were killing us. Although I was more than a tad hesitant, I concurred with Dave's suggestion that we try to hitch a ride. Most of the vehicles we encountered were big cargo trucks racing by (in the opposite direction, no less), and the few passenger cars that were going our way ignored us. Nobody looked twice at us for 2 miles, and then a car finally stopped . . . and then sped off again as we approached. Dave flipped them the bird and shouted a string of colorful expletives. I was too tired to join in.

Thankfully, it wasn't too long afterwards that we finally caught a break. Two guys in a pickup truck picked us up and drove us to the campgrounds lickety-split, thus abruptly ending our 8 1/2 hour, 20 some-odd mile hiking misadventure. Now the only remaining problem we had was to locate the cabin. Since we had never checked in, we had no idea which one was ours. The only thing to do was to search around for the rental car. We spotted it in front of the "Miners" cabin about ten minutes later and rapped on the window. Clearly our friends had not been up all night fraught with worry, as it took quite a while for someone to open the door. We insincerely apologized to all for disturbing their sleep and set about making ourselves a quick but hearty late night dinner as they rolled back over. (Much to the displeasure of my gastrointestinal system, I consumed FIVE hot dogs and an entire 1-pound can of baked beans.) It was 3:00 a.m. by the time I finally went to bed. Not surprisingly, I had no problem falling asleep.