Alaska diary: New friends and fond farewells

Studying lichen (edible & otherwise) with Ranger Andy

One benefit of travel is the people you meet.  We had lots of casual conversations with our fellow campers and with the park staff at Wonder Lake.  Here are a few of the adventurers we ran into during our stay at Denali  (not counting the bears):

• The couple camped above us is from near Munich, Germany -- backpackers visiting the North American continent.  Of the more than 400,000 visitors last year, I'm guessing at least 25% were from foreign countries, maybe more. 
• The campers below stay only one night.  Gary is a freelance photographer and journalist.  She is a botanist.  Both are in their 60's, I am guessing, but fit and focused on seeing as much as they can squeeze into their overnight visit.  Gary is also a lucky duck.  The one morning they spend in camp, Mt. McKinley exposes itself.  Dale and I hear him snapping pictures by the hundreds with his Nikon. The clicking of the camera shutter wakes me up at 5 a.m.
• A young couple from southern California -- college-aged kids -- dress the best of all of us.  She sports form-fitting high-end outdoor gear (Sierra Designs, Patagonia, Mountain Hardwear).  He wears pegged denims, rolled up neatly above his combat boots.  They have the eagerness of puppies about them.  
• A couple from Washington state tells us they came to Alaska seven years ago and never left.  A common story.
• A group of four college kids -- three young women and one fellow -- are volunteering with World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms (WWOOF).  It's an organization I have never heard of, but it impresses me as a practical way for someone to both contribute and learn something of organic agricultural practices.  They have been working near Talkeetna, and have taken a few days off to see Denali.  I dub them "woofers."  One young woman is a ringer for Jennifer Lawrence; I have to stop myself from calling her Katniss.
• A brother and sister from Taiwan (pictured with my brother and me and the rangers in a previous post) stay the same three nights as us, along with a couple of their friends.  Amazing people.  The siblings have been to a survival school in Vermont, learning how to subsist in the wilderness on plants and animals.   Both are meticulous journal writers and artists, drawing pictures of edible plants and animals as they learn about them from the ranger.  The sister has been in Mexico prior to coming to Alaska, living with a family on an exchange, then traveling all through Latin America.  From our camp they are headed to the Stampede Trail, the site where Christopher McCandless (subject of the Jon Krakauer book Into the Wild) was last seen alive.  The brother, Leo,  tells me they are taking only a 20 kilo bag of rice and planning to stay away from civilization for 40 days.  
• A group of four young people from China.  When the ranger has us all introduce ourselves the first night, he points out how we are from all around the world and names China (but not Taiwan) as one of the places mentioned.  The Taiwanese group speaks up to clarify that mistake.
• The camp host, Phyllis, and her visiting daughter, Jo, drive by in Ranger Magali's vehicle and stop to talk.  Phyllis has been the campground host at Wonder Lake for 23 years, many of those years with her late husband, Harry.  She is 88 years old. but continues to return to Wonder Lake and says she intends to do so as long as she is healthy.  The mountain that backs up from the camp and lake is called Harry's Hill in honor of her husband.  I ask if I can stop by and interview her, and she says, "Of course," and that she will have cookies ready.  Unfortunately, the next day she leaves camp when her daughter has to return home to Texas.
• Two girls from Anchorage camp a couple of days in the Wonder Lake area to hike and bike.    They ride the bus out with us and get off near Polychrome Pass around mile 40, planning to bike back to the park entrance yet that afternoon.

I imagine some of these people will be talking about "the brothers" when they get home -- those two crazy guys who go fishing and camping together every year.  When it's time to leave, I feel a bit nostalgic already for Alaska.

It's another clear warm day for the bus ride out of the park on Monday.  We load and head towards Kantishna at the end of the Denali road.  At the ranger cabins a half mile up the main road, Magali and Andy are on the front porch doing the CanCan.  She has on an apron printed with the neck-down image of a Folies Bergere dancer.  Andy is wearing his Elmer Fudd cap.  You make your own entertainment in the wild.

A few more miles up the road, we stop to take pictures from the northern shore of Wonder Lake.  Paul, our driver, is in no particular hurry.  He's happy to pick up and drop off hikers and bikers, or to pull over for wildlife photo opportunities.  He's also  much more talkative and we hear about his work history (spotty and opportunistic) and his divorce (she got the truck).  It will take us 2 hours longer to drive out of the park than it did to drive in.

When we stop at Eilson, I talk with the young woman, Margie, who has been sitting in front of us on the bus.  She is a graduate of the University of Colorado and lives west of Boulder.  She works at the Murie Science Center for National Geographic.  Back on the bus, Paul strikes up a conversation with her, glancing in his rear view mirror.

"Where do you work when you're not at the park?"

"I work with the schools in Colorado.  Environmental ed," she says.

"I had to take driver's ed," he replies.  "Didn't know they still offered that in schools."  And he rambles on about who taught his class and how he did on his driver's test.  Margie is nice enough to humor him -- and us-- and says nothing.

During the seven-hour ride we come across nine grizzly bears:  two separate mothers with two cubs each, a couple of males feeding together on berries, and another male ambling across the plain far below the Eilson Visitor Center.  One mother and cubs walks smack dab down the middle of the road past our bus.  Despite their proximity, they are gone quickly and we all get far fewer photos than we would like.

From Denali we drive back to Anchorage, stopping to see if the silvers have arrived yet on Montana Creek.  No luck.  In Wasila we drop by a Goodwill to donate my tent, find a place to stay for the night, and sample some Alaskan brews at "Locals," the bar and restaurant across the parking lot from the hotel.   In the morning we have breakfast at the "Trout Cafe" across the road.  It's exactly what you would expect -- pine walls plastered with photos of huge fish and bigger game -- salmon, char, bears, caribou.  Flannel-shirted locals are talking politics in loud voices over bottomless cups of coffee.  Their politics are closer to Sarah Palin's than mine, but after all this is the town where she was elected mayor -- twice.

It's been a great trip.  Two spectacular weeks in Alaska.   Our annual fishing trips are always a kick, but this one sets the bar high for whatever follows.   "Florida next year?" asks Dale.  I'm already dreaming of bonefish and margaritas.  

Alaska diary: Climate change and snowshoe hares

"Warming of the climate system is unequivocal, as is now evident from observations of increases in global average air and ocean temperatures, widespread melting of snow and ice, and rising global sea level."  -- Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, 2007 

That's what the Park Service pamphlet -- Climate Change in National Parks -- proclaims.  Ranger Andy hands out copies to his evening group of campers and walks us through what climate change means for Alaska and Denali National Park.

Among his most impressive "Powerpoint" graphics this evening is a color-coded map showing which regions of the earth have experienced the greatest increase in average annual temperatures, red being the most extreme increases.  Leading the world, by a large margin, is the Arctic zone, a red mass at the top of the graphic, a whopping 4 degrees hotter than it used to be.

The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) has studied what is called the "polar vortex" -- the wind patterns that used to circle the polar ice cap, trapping cold air at the North Pole.  Changes in those patterns have permitted warmer air to move across the Pole during the winter, which means that less ice forms and therefore when it melts in the summer, less ice is left to cover the polar sea.  The ice cap has shrunk by 30% in the last 5 years and may be reaching critical mass, where melting is accelerated.

All the numbers barely hint at the consequences for plants, animals, and humans.  Andy shows photos of tundra and towns in northern Alaska where the melting of permafrost results in "subsidence" -- a term describing how the ground is literally sinking under buildings, roads and bridges.  The ground under the tundra usually remains frozen even during the summer months.  But not with all the recent changes in weather patterns in the Arctic.

Industrial and auto emissions, deforestation, and other burning of fossil fuels (ironically supplied by the Alaskan pipeline in some cases) are widely confirmed as causing rising atmospheric temperatures -- even though they occur thousands of miles and continents away.   The resulting damage to Alaska's infrastructure and personal property poses enormous financial challenges to individuals and to local and state governments, not to mention the disruption in the lives of people affected by this damage.

Ranger Andy talks about the pika, a small alpine mammal that survives only in cold climates.  This little round-eared member of the rabbit family has been forced to seek higher and higher habitat due to rising temperatures in Alaska, Canada, and mountainous regions of the lower U.S.  In some cases, that habitat has simply run out.  The pika has nowhere higher to go when a mountain that used to remain sufficiently cool during summer months, is now too warm even at its summit for these tiny creatures to survive.

Similar catastrophe faces polar bears and walrus.  Because of melting Arctic seas, these animals must swim long distances rather than hopping from ice floe to ice floe in search of food.  In the case of the polar bear, scientists predict that they may be extinct by the end of this century if not before unless melting of the polar ice cap is reversed.  Likewise, because walrus cannot float on ice floes between feeding grounds, they are forced to overgraze clam beds in fewer available locales.  As a consequence, their numbers are also shrinking.  (I saw To the Arctic on the IMAX screen at the Natural History Smithsonian a few weeks ago.  The film depicts the bleak future polar bears and walrus face in open seas, although hope remains if we act now.  Highly recommended if available in your area.)

As for effects on flora, I already knew something of how warmer winters affect mountain environments.  In Colorado our winters in the high country include plenty of days when the thermometer doesn't rise above zero degrees Fahrenheit.  At elevations above 8000 feet, sub-zero winter days are common.  A typical Colorado winter thirty years ago would contain stretches when temperatures stayed well below zero for 5-10 days or longer.  Although we didn't realize it at the time, these cold weather days had important effects on insect life with direct consequences for Colorado's extensive lodgepole pine forests.

Hard winters normally kill pine beetle eggs and larvae in the bark of lodgepole and other pines and spruce.  A combination of milder temperatures and lower precipitation the past 10 years has resulted in an outbreak of beetles which have destroyed huge swaths of trees.  Whole hillsides of trees in the Grand Lake area near Rocky Mt. National Park have turned from lush forests into a wasteland of dry timber.  These blighted areas increase fire danger and the chance that when fires do start, they will spread faster and cause more damage.  This past summer's Colorado fires were fed by both drought conditions and by areas of dead trees damaged by beetle kill.

Andy concludes the talk with everyone sharing one thing he or she will do personally to halt climate change.

Perhaps because the previous evening's talk was on a somber topic, the following day Andy takes a lighter approach.  He focuses on park wildlife, passing around pictures of various animals that reside in the park -- bear, caribou, wolves, foxes, lynx, snowshoe hare.  He intentionally calls the hare a rabbit, which is the cue for his wife, Magali, to hop into the camp amphitheater costumed with bunny ears, nose, and tail and huge white hare-like feet (which are actually air-insulated winter boots).  She lectures Andy, and the rest of us, in her charming French accent about the fact that she is a "hare" and not a "rabbit."

 "And I change my coat from brown in summer to white in winter," says hare Magali.

"Why is that?" asks Andy.

"Don't you know anything, you silly Ranger?" says the hare.  "To camouflage myself so I will not be eaten by -- I hate to say his name -- the lynx."

And so it goes.  We laugh and learn as the hare hops about.  Magali has a future in comedy if the allure of the outdoors ever wears off, which I seriously doubt it will.  

As campers depart, we pose for a picture with Andy and Magali and friends from Taiwan we have met in the camp (more on them in a later post).  A hopping good time in Wonder Lake.

Alaska diary: Rangers and Bears

Park ranger Andy Keller slides a meter wide map mounted on thin plywood into a couple of two-by-four homemade "feet."

"My Denali Powerpoint presentation," he says with a grin.

About two dozen campers have assembled for the evening ranger talk, held nightly at an open air clearing on a hill in the Wonder Lake campground.  Benches of half-sawn logs face the expansive McKinley River basin below.  Across the miles of gravel bars, the Alaska Range hunches behind an evening cloud bank.  The tips of a few peaks are visible, but not Mt. McKinley.  Mostly a band of clouds stretches across the horizon with no hint of what lies beyond.

After a brief explanation of the difference between brown and black bears, Ranger Andy starts the evening with a question and answer routine.

Q.  How close should you approach a grizzly bear?
A.  No closer than 900 feet -- the length of 3 football fields. 

Q.  What should you do if you unexpectedly come upon a grizzly?"
A.  Do not run!  Running signals to a grizzly that supper is at hand.  Stand still and gently wave your hands above your head and talk softly to the bear while backing slowly away. 

Q.  Where should you leave scented items like food and toothpaste when not in use?
A.  In one of the camp bear lockers. 

Q.  While cooking, how long can you leave food unattended?
A.  Don't do it!  Have someone stay at the cooking site or put everything in lockers until you return. 

Q.  What about black bears?  What should you do if you come upon one?
A.  If the bear approaches, make yourself as big as possible by spreading out your jacket or standing in groups.  Make noise to scare the bear away.   

Q.  If a bear should attack, what should you do?
A.  Play dead.  Cover your head and neck with your arms.  Leave your backpack on to protect your back and spine.   

Q.  How many people have been killed by grizzly bears in Denali National Park in its almost 100-year-old history?
A.  None.

Three-year-old male grizzly

(Sadly, the week after we returned from Alaska, a 49-year-old hiker from San Diego took 8 minutes worth of film of a grizzly from a distance of about 80 feet.  The bear finally grew restless, attacking and killing the man, removing him from the gene pool.  The bear had to be killed and Rangers can no longer boast of zero grizzly fatalities in the park.)

Because Denali Park is so large -- over 2 million acres of wilderness -- the wildlife has plenty of area to roam.  The natural flora remain undisturbed, so that berries are plentiful.  (The blueberries were underfoot everywhere while we were there.)  And because human contact is limited and interactions with bears rarely initiated by visitors (no feeding, no close approaches for pictures -- our late photographer excepted, careful storage of food items at campsites), the bears do not associate people with anything threatening or appealing.  Andy mentions that bears frequently cruise through the Wonder Lake campsites, but since campers are careful to avoid contact or leave out food, the animals pass through without stopping -- most of the time.

Two women from Fairbanks, who are camping with their elementary-aged kids, sit on one of the front benches.  A girl of about 10, a younger girl and two smaller boys answer all of the ranger's questions, when called on.  They have been studying the Junior Ranger packet that Park Service employees give to youngsters.   Ranger Andy and his wife, Magali, conduct a brief award ceremony at the end of the bear talk.  The kids recite an oath, pledge to care for the wilderness, and receive the official Junior Ranger patch and certificate.  We applaud.

Olaus & Mardy Murie in winter gear

After our bear warnings and Junior Ranger presentation, the evening's talk focuses on the history of Denali Park and the people who were either directly or indirectly instrumental in its establishment.  Olaus Murie and his wife, Martha Thompson, pique my interest.  Olaus worked for the US Biological Survey in the early 1900's researching caribou herd migrations and collecting wildlife specimens.  That description sounds mundane, but travel and work in the wilds of Alaska at this time were brutal and demanding.  Imagine the area with few roads and no railroads, accessible only by dogsled or boat, depending on the season.  No down clothing or lightweight camping gear.  Supplies had to be carried, acquired from friendly trappers and miners, or replenished from hunting and fishing.  Olaus was a pioneering scientist by virtue of his ability to thrive in these conditions.

Andy and Magali Keller

Martha -- also known as Mardy -- grew up in Fairbanks where her father was a US Attorney, one of the first to serve in the Alaskan territory.  Although she lived in greater comfort than Olaus, she was used to long dark winters and extreme cold, swarms of mosquitos and streets of mud in the warmer months.  When she met Olaus, it sparked her adventurous spirit and her own love of the outdoors.

The two were married in 1924 and immediately departed on a 500-mile dogsled "honeymoon" across the northern mountains and tundra, so that Olaus could conduct his caribou studies.  A challenging first few months for a marriage -- which lasted 70 years.   The couple would go on to be instrumental in creating the Artctic Wildlife Refuge and Olaus would serve as a founding board member of the Wilderness Society.  Mardy lived to 101 and is sometimes called the "grandmother of the environmental movement."  Their story is lovingly retold in her memoir, Two in the Frozen North.  

Andy asks how many of us would spend a honeymoon in the Alaskan wilderness?  Of course, no one raises a hand.  "The only time someone said yes was when Magali was in the audience of a presentation I gave," he says.  "We were married soon after and have been hiking and exploring together ever since."  Magali and Andy both beam under the brim of their ranger hats.  

Alaska diary: Mt McKinley

Karma invited us to Denali and threw a party.  Mt. McKinley was entirely or partly visible all but one day of the three days we spent in the the Park.  Peeking out describes the visibility in the evenings.  And totally or partially shrouded applies various times of the afternoon.  But on two mornings, we're talking bare naked, whole range, not-a-cloud-in-sight visible.

I could rhapsodize, but the picture and 1000 words ratio favors the pictures.  So enjoy the views.  We did.

View from Eilson Visitor Center -- on bus ride into the Park.  By afternoon, the entire range was obscured by clouds.

But McKinley peeked out again in the evening after the ranger talk.  Photo taken about 10:00 pm.

The first day in camp, the whole range was visible.  We hiked up the hillside east of Wonder Lake Campground for this view.

The view from our campsite at Wonder Lake on the first morning.  We heard Gary, the professional photographer camped below us, snapping pictures at dawn.

Dale and I hiked up to Reflection Pond, about two miles from the campground, for this and many other pictures.

Supposedly Ansel Adams took a famous black & white photograph from this very pond.  

At 6 a.m. on the final morning, McKlinley was visible.  By 7:30 the clouds had rolled in.  Our green tent -- my trusty Jansport -- squats in the bushes lower right.

On the bus ride out the last day, our driver stopped at the north end of Wonder Lake for this view of the range.

Alaska diary: Denali National Park (The camper bus)

Six-thirty a.m. Friday morning.  We take the advice of the young woman who confirmed our camping reservation yesterday afternoon and "follow the dinosaur prints" from long-term parking to the Murie Science and Nature Center.  A group of campers is already assembling.

We have stuffed most of our gear into my duffel and our two day packs.  The exception:  a cardboard box of food and the wheeled cooler that carries our open jelly jar and a gallon of iced tea.

"Now that's some old time camping gear," says an older bearded man, who is also waiting for the bus.  "A cardboard box and an ice chest."

Frank, the bus driver, shows up on time, and directs loading of backpacks, boxes, and a bicycle.  He drones through the bus regulations once everyone is onboard.  Seat belts fastened while the bus is moving.  If we see an animal that needs photographing, don't call out the name of the animal ("You'll almost always be wrong").  Just yell, "Stop."  Hands and cameras inside the windows.  Bathroom breaks along the way.

To reduce impact on the park, Denali has only one 92-mile-long main road in two million acres.  The first 15 miles are paved and open to private vehicles.  Beyond that all vehicular travel is by shuttle bus only.  We are headed to Wonder Lake at mile 83.

Back on the bus, we strike up a conversation with the young couple in front of us, who are from Palmer.  He owns the trail bike lodged in the luggage section.  The plan, he says, is to ride back out to the park entrance from Wonder Lake.  Having checked an elevation diagram of the park road, I know that he will be traversing passes that total several thousand feet in elevation gains and losses.  He looks lean and fit, dressed in shorts while most of the rest of us still have on a second layer against the morning chill.

"How long will the ride take?"  I ask.

I'm hoping to average around 10 miles an hour," he says.  That means he will finish by 10:00 p.m. if all goes well.  Daylight persists for over an hour beyond that.  We wish him good luck.

Two twenty-something women, who have summer jobs in the park, sit across the aisle.  We find out that one woman, Rachel, a PhD. candidate from the University of Pennsylvania, is studying treeline changes in the park.  She tells my brother that Alaskan spruce now grow 200 feet above their former treeline of only 10 years ago.  Global climate change accounts for the difference.  Her degree is in applied geosciences, a field she picked to guarantee a career involving international travel.  So far she has done field work in Scotland and Alaska.

At our first rest stop at the Teklanika River, Frank gives us 10 minutes for pictures and potty.  True to his word he shuts the door and pulls back onto the main road close to that mark.  The two young women across from us are not on the bus, and someone yells at Frank to let him know.  He slows down -- reluctantly -- when the dread-locked guy behind us volunteers to go back and get them.  They come jogging up the road quickly and we take off.  Frank seems bent on the business of delivering his load.  It's probably been a long summer.

From Teklanika on, the gravel road gains and loses elevation in 1000 foot increments, over Sable and Polychrome Pass.   I am in the aisle  seat on the downhill side of the bus, and from where I sit, all I can see out of the window is open air and precipitous drop-offs.   Frank navigates the narrow road on the edge of these steep inclines for many miles, skillfully maneuvering around curves.  I begin to understand why he seems determined to be among the first vehicles into the park.  The dust from the few buses in front of us lingers in hazy puffs we pass quickly through for miles.

We pull into the Eilson Visitor Center at mile 66.  Despite the obvious wilderness that stretches out in all directions from the road up to this point, it is not until we arrive at Eilson that the Alaska Range and Mt. McKinley are finally visible -- a view so stunning it looks contrived, a Thomas Cole or Albert Bierstadt painting come to life.  The landscape stretches off into the distance from our vantage on the observation deck.  We can see McKinley above the gathering clouds, which appear to be rushing towards it, as if late for an afternoon weather conference.

What most impresses is the vastness of the view, the sense of looking out across a wild and unspoiled place.  Despite the buses, the air itself seems untainted, clear and sweet.  Even milling about among the dozens of park visitors, I feel a sense of calm order.  The scale of the natural world and my place in it are in balance.

Once more on the bus, the final seventeen miles pass quickly.  Frank has been bearing down, all business, for most of the ride.  He only has to stop 3 or 4 times for picture taking, once to watch the tail end of a single bear disappearing over the hillside above us, a couple of times for other wildlife -- Dall sheep and caribou.  He pulls off the main road and coasts downhill for a mile and a half to Wonder Lake.

We have arrived in a little over 5 hours, an hour less than advertised, which really seems to have buoyed Frank's mood.  The camp hosts greet us, and seeing our cardboard box and wheeled cooler, steer Dale and me to the nearest campsite, less than 50 feet up the trail.  Before we have deposited our gear, I hear the bus gears grinding and picture Frank heading off for Kantishna, the final stop 10 miles up the road.   We have had enough of the camper bus, and Frank has no doubt had enough of us, so it is overall a happy parting.

Alaska diary: The mountain

For the next few days, it's all about the mountain.

We are headed to Denali National Park, hoping for a better roll of the dice with the weather.  The chances of seeing McKinley are about one in five, according to guidebooks and local wisdom.  We have scheduled four days and three nights in Denali at Wonder Lake, 83 miles from the park entrance, since that area affords a clear view of McKinley and the surrounding Alaska Range.  But we know from friends and published warnings, we might never see the mountain while we are there.

Getting there from Anchorage takes from 3-5 hours, depending on construction, traffic, and weather.  We stop in Wasila to fill our camp larder.  Dale drives from there while I take an hour nap.  What I see of the 237-mile drive from Anchorage, once I wake up, reminds me of highways in the eastern US.  An asphalt trail in a tunnel of trees on either side and not much visible beyond that.

That changes at mile 135.  The McKinley View Lodge and restaurant parking lot is teeming with buses and cars.  At the north end of the parking lot families are posing for pictures with -- the mountain!  The entire peak is visible, although at telephoto range.  We stand in line for our turn and take a few shots, hoping they turn out well enough to prove we were among the lucky few.

While fixing a tailgate lunch before heading out, clouds gather in the distance, and by the time we leave, McKinley is tucked behind its usual blanket of weather.

Around 3:30 p.m. we arrive at Denali River Cabins, where I have booked accommodations in advance.  We need to be at Denali Park by 6 a.m. tomorrow morning to board the camper bus to Wonder Lake.   The cabins are a short 6-mile drive from the Park entrance.  But, not so fast.  When we check in, the receptionist announces that the whole complex is without water.  The pump has stopped working and parts have not yet arrived.

"When will we have water?"

The lady who seems to be in charge is understandably evasive.  "The parts should be here in two hours and then we can start the repairs."

I hear her give this same answer to several other newly arrived guests.  Our options are to wait it out and hope for water later in the day.  Or we can move across the road to the Grizzly Bear Inn.  We are both a bit skeptical of that alternative, but after talking it over decide that a move is the only thing which makes sense.  We can't spend the night without water as this will be our last chance to shower for four days.  Not to mention the other conveniences that depend on a functioning plumbing system.

The Grizzly Bear turns out to have bigger, newer, quieter rooms in a two story building full of Canadians, who have recently arrived in the enormous bus that blocks the parking area near our room.  We unload quickly and drive to the Wilderness Access Center at Denali to check in and make sure we know where we need to be in the morning.  The camper bus leaves at 7:00 a.m. and takes 5-6 hours to arrive at Wonder Lake, so missing the early bus would mean missing half a day in the Park.  The young lady who answers my questions and check us in informs me I'm due a $24 rebate.  Senior citizen discount.  Within a minute of completing arrangements, the fire alarm sounds and the center is evacuated.  We're feeling lucky again, having checked in just in time.

After a quick freshen up back at the Grizzly Bear, we try to get a table at the famous 229 Parks gourmet restaurant and tavern a couple of miles back down the main highway.  But they are booked for the evening.  I drool a bit over the display case of tortes and other fancy pastries in a bakery display under the register, try to sweet talk the hostess into a seat at the bar for dinner, but it's rejection on all counts.

I ask her for a close alternative and she recommends Prey bar and eatery, just across the highway.  (From "restaurant and tavern" to "bar and eatery" -- the order of labels tells you something about the difference in fare and frills.)  So that's where we end up.  Which turns out to be the perfect spot.  A friendly host.  Burgers and Alaskan Amber beers.  The TV tuned to the Olympics.  We see the women's platform diving and the final of the men's 800m race.  That will be the entirety of our 2012 Olympic viewing.

Back at the Grizzly Bear, we shuffle items between duffels, deciding what will stay in the trunk of the car and what we will haul into Wonder Lake.  A part of the reorganization includes deciding what to leave in the room -- mostly food that will not keep or that we will not be able to eat.  The remainder goes into a small cooler we have purchased or a cardboard box.  We are both asleep by 11 p.m., knowing that no matter what, we have seen Mt. McKinley.  I drift off dreaming of large mountains and burly bears.

Alsaka diary: Trout fishing in America

My brother, Dale, wants to catch a dolly varden.  Dollies are a trout species found extensively in Kenai River basin waters.  Or he will settle for a big rainbow, anything to justify hauling waders and boots 1500 miles in his luggage.  (The Wilderness Lodge supplied all our equipment, so to this point we have not made use of any fishing gear we have brought.)  The trout will be feeding on roe from the spawning salmon.  We will be feeding on the trout.

After breakfast at Hidden Lake, we head to Grim's Tackle, a recommended fishing shop up the road from our camp.  We always spend time in the local tackle store, looking for advice on flies and fishing technique.  The price of a few geegaws -- flies, split shot, strike indicators, leader material -- is always repaid with more information than we can use.

In this case, the trout expert is a young fellow named Tim from West Virginia.  His down home drawl seems out of place at first in Alaska, but soon enough we settle into the usual fishermen's give and take, and enjoy his good ol' boy fish tales.  For trout he recommends plastic beads that mimic roe as attractors for rainbows and dolly varden.  Nearby Quartz Creek holds the best population of dollies, although Tim has lots of stories of 20+ inch lunkers he has pulled from lakes and rivers in the area.

Because Grim's has been bought out of the hottest size of beads, we drive a mile farther to Troutfitters and swap questions and a few dollars on tackle for further advice.  The same advice.  Quartz Creek it is.

That's where we head after breaking camp.  The creek is a beautiful freestone stream packed with salmon, in this case sockeyes.  The hook-jawed males lunge and swipe at each other, hardwired to protect a spawning bed.  Dale wanders off downstream and I fish upstream for an hour, hooking a couple of salmon but no dollies.  For me, watching the fish is as entertaining as casting for them.

Directly in front of me, two huge king salmon, both a yard long and battered from their long swim upriver, take care of the business that has brought them to Quartz Creek.  Their red bodies have white gashes and molting flesh.  The female sweeps her tail over the creek bed near shore.  Then the male moves in to deposit his sperm and stir the mix with a frenzied fanning of his tail, a final gesture to fulfill his destiny.  Water from his churning splashes against my wader legs.  The two fish slide back closer to the center of the stream, their job done.

When I get back to the car, Dale has stories of bear scat and pictures of a gorgeous dolly.  Mission accomplished.

Our last stop in the area is at the confluence of the Kenai and Russian Rivers.  The Russian, according to a chalkboard tally at Troutfitters, has counted close to 1.5 million sockeyes moving upriver this season.  So far.  The second run of the season is underway.  We park at the Russian River campground and walk several hundred yards on a raised boardwalk set back from the riverbank.  By restricting fisherman traffic to the walkway and stair access points spaced out every fifty yards or so, riparian damage is minimized.  That's a handy accommodation, since this river gets more fishing pressure than any other in Alaska.

I had read in advance to expect elbow to elbow fishing when the reds were running.  Jostling and lines tangled -- bound to happen.  It's not exactly cheek by jowl, but groups of fishermen stand in the hottest runs no more than 10 feet apart.  Sockeyes do not feed while spawning, so the method for landing them involves a short, weighted dropper that pulls along the bottom, while the leader pulls a bald hook at the level the fish are swimming.  Hooking one of the reds in the mouth counts as a catch.  My guess is that an equal number are foul hooked.  This is meat fishing at its most ravenous.  And sockeyes, as your butcher will tell you, offer meat worth stalking.

The guide books prove prophetic.

I find an open stretch near the confluence when a young fisherman and his female companion step back  to rerig.  I connect with two dollies, both in what look to be the 18+ inch range, but lose them when my leader snaps.  Two anglers in fancy Simms waders and top-of-the-line gear -- obviously guys who have come to Alaska to fish like my brother and I, not like the locals in levis and hip waders -- splash across the river through the run I am fishing.  One asks how it's going and I make the mistake of saying that I've had a couple of fish on.

That's a signal for one fellow to set up to my right, within six feet, and begin casting.  He hooks a salmon and it splashes through the run I am fishing, spooking whatever is there.  His partner walks directly across the river from me and casts back in my direction, hooking my line, which is floating through the run.  He reels in and untangles our rigs, casting a haughty squint at me as if I am intruding on his space.

I bring in my line.  I've had enough fishing for the day.  If we had been among those looking to fill a bucket with sockeyes, we would have had more fun.  But since we are more used to fishing as an escape from the noise and bustle -- more like a walk through nature with Isaac Walton -- the Russian River scene proves uninviting.

We dismantle our gear and pull off our boots and waders at the car.  The drive to Anchorage takes close to three hours, where we spend the night.  Starting tomorrow morning, we will put away our fishing hats for four days in Denali Park, our next destination.  Wilderness and grizzly bears await.  Plus many other (pleasant) surprises.

Alaska diary: The Kenai (Exit Glacier to Hidden Lake)

Nunataks are appearing on Kenai ranges where ice and snow have melted earlier and been absent longer as a result of rising global temperatures.  In fact, the highest gain in average temperatures on the planet is occurring above and near the Arctic Circle -- not good news for the wildlife or people living in this region.  And the consequences of a shrinking polar ice cap spread far beyond the Arctic.  Think twice before throwing the family fortune at a beachfront property.

What is a nunatak (besides the name of the boat we took yesterday to Fox Island)?  According to Wikipedia, the word is Inuit and refers to the "exposed, often rocky element of a ridge, mountain, or peak not covered with ice or snow within (or at the edge of) an ice field or glacier."

Our drive this morning to see the Exit Glacier just outside of Seward provides a stark illustration of how rising temperatures are shrinking ice fields and exposing what lies beneath.

On the road in and along the trail from the visitor's center to the base of the glacier, small signs bearing dates from the 1800's to the 1960's indicate where the edge of the glacier extended in various years.  To give an idea of how much the glacier has receded, in 1962 it would have been a couple hundred feet from the visitor's center.  It now is a 30-minute hike away.  In the 1880's, the ice covered the entire valley pictured in the photo [left].

The remaining glacier still carves an impressive swath through the mountains, but it continues to shrink at rates faster than observed at any time in the past 150 years.

The Kenai Fjords Wilderness Area is, as the name implies, off limits to auto traffic.  The only exception is vehicle access at the Exit Glacier.  We drive about 8 miles in from the Seward Highway and find a parking place amidst the rows of cars and RV's.  Our goal is to hike to the Harding Ice Field above the glacier, about a 2 hour trek according to signs posted at the trail entry near the visitor's center.

With day packs, water, and protein bars, we begin a steady climb through a heavily wooded area.  The first half hour we see a couple of hikers and lots of wildflowers:  fireweed, columbine, larkspur, wild geranium, paintbrush, fleabane, cinquefoil, cow parsnip  The trail suddenly emerges onto a rocky outcrop overlooking the foot of the glacier.  Here the crowd is larger, all with cameras at the ready.  The fissures in the ice at this level seem carved by melting rivulets for the most part.  The wall of ice still looms 20 feet thick, a robin's egg blue under the surface where it has compacted over time.  We take our own photos and continue up the trail.

The climb is steady and we both are sweating.  We pass two crews who are pruning the undergrowth back from the trail, some by hand, others with spades or pulaskis.  Most look like their clothes have not seen detergent in at least a week.  I notice sweat dripping from the headbands of several hard hats, despite the fact everyone appears to operating in slow motion.  They seem a dispirited bunch, another troop of college-aged volunteers who have had their summer of fun and now are dreaming of a hot bath at home, far away from the wilderness.

Another 45 minutes up the trail and we arrive at a natural overlook.  Five groups of hikers, including us, take turns standing on a vantage point for photos.  We can see a group of adventurers out on the glacier far below.  They move deliberately between massive cracks in the ice, advancing about 50 yards while we observe them over a drink and snack.  The Harding Ice Field, which feeds this and several other glaciers, is at the top of a steep wall and switchback trail we can see from where we have stopped.  Intent on driving to the Skilak Lake area yet today, we decide to head back down.

On our descent we pass a group that announces they have spotted a black bear moving across the terrain on the far side of a ravine that splits our trail from the facing mountainside.  We pause several times to scan the area but fail to see the bear.

The drive up the Seward Highway and back to the Sterling Highway includes patches of sunshine.  By the time we arrive at the first campground on the Skilak loop off the main highway, we hold out hope that the weather may be turning in our favor.  We have our pick of campsites at Hidden Lake.  I pay the senior rate at the check-in station and we set up the tent, then decide to go for a hike before dinner to explore.

A commemorative trail ventures off from the road in our camping area.  Tall birches and spruce are widely spaced, and the undergrowth is much more sparse than what we have seen thus far in Alaska.  But bearberries and wild currants clump together under some trees.  We chat about plans for tomorrow, where we might fish and tackle shops mentioned in the Flyfishing in Alaska book I've downloaded on my iPad.

"A bear," says my brother, Dale, suddenly.

We both stop.  A hundred feet in front of us, off the trail, a black bear munches in a stand of berry bushes.  The bear easily weighs 250 pounds, maybe more.  His back is visible above the undergrowth, about the elevation of my waistline.  We snap a couple of quick pictures, talk softly to the bear, who shows no sign of our presence, and back away.  My heart is racing.

The camp does not have bear storage lockers, so we pack everything into the trunk of the car after dinner.  Since it is still early and light, we drive up the road several miles parallel to Skilak Lake.  A black bear sow and cub poke their heads out from the brush at the roadside.  We see another cub later.  This is Jellystone Park.  I'm hoping we are smarter than the average bear.

After Dale shoots some stunning late evening photos, we return to camp and build a fire from wood left at one of the vacant sites hoping the smoke and heat send a message.  Bears visit elsewhere.

After several games of cribbage, we crawl into our bags and dream of large fish.  Trout and dolly varden are the targets in this area, although the reds and silvers should also be in the bigger rivers and creeks.  We'll find out more in the morning.  The evening sky is now clear.  Tonight will be cool. We may be wishing for a small dose of global warming before dawn.

Alaska diary: The Kenai (Seward & Fox Island)

There is no electricity in Seward when we arrive in the early afternoon.  Transformer troubles, according to a girl at the desk of the Seward Hotel.

We have decided to spend a night indoors to let our camping gear have time to dry.  Plus it is raining again.  The women at the desk are apologetic about the outage, but don't seem overly concerned.  "Happens all the time.," says one.  I imagine the panic that would overtake any large city in the lower 48.  No working computers, credit card readers, televisions, traffic lights, refrigerators, hair dryers.  But Seward seems cool with inconvenience.

The city itself is small (pop. 2076), nestled into a natural deep water harbor at the end of Resurrection Bay.  Surrounded by snow-capped mountains dotted with glaciers, the narrow town contains a half dozen streets.  First through Sixth avenues run north and south.  Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, and Monroe streets plus A, B, and C streets cross them east to west.  The small boat harbor is tacked onto the north end of town.  That's about it.

The hotel lobby looks like an upscale taxidermy shop decorated by one of your mother's maiden aunts, the aunt with very good taste in tasseled lamps and quarter-sawn oak furniture.  Big games heads hang here and there; a stuffed fox in its white winter coat poses alert on a chunk of driftwood.  We take a single room in the historic wing with a hide-a-bed and settle in enough to shower and change clothes.  By the time we are finished, the electricity is restored and life goes on in Alaska.

I have booked a dinner cruise to Fox Island at the suggestion of our Wilderness Lodge hosts.  So we head for the harbor.  Along with about forty other hungry sightseers, we board the Nanatuk at 4:30 and stream out of the Bay towards a prime rib and salmon feast/nature adventure -- at least that is what has been advertised.

The crew consists of young kids on a summer job lark.  That pretty much describes 75% of the help in Alaska during the tourist season.  One young woman I speak with is from Montrose, Colorado.  Lots of people from my home state seem drawn to Alaska, a place even wilder than the Colorado outdoors.  This young expat is a student at Fairbanks University.   I ask her how she likes Alaska.

"I miss the skiing," she says.  "And the sun."

The trip to Fox Island is uneventful except for a group of young German travelers who laugh at high volume at each other's clever remarks and the crew member who narrates over the loudspeaker as we chug towards dinner.  His patter is informative.  We learn that Seward was an oil port in the mid-20th century, but that the famous 9.2 Anchorage earthquake caused 3 tsunamis which devastated the refinery and storage facilities in Seward, as well as wiping out most of the town.   Why didn't that make the news?  My brother, Dale,  remembers hearing news of the Anchorage quake when we came out of a Good Friday church service back in 1964, but he can't recall hearing anything of Seward, nor can I.

The narrator's style is a cross between Jacque Cousteau and Jonathan Edwards, as stentorious as it is possible for a 25-year-old seagoing college student to be.  Example, when talking of the grey whales and their appetite for krill in the bay:  "After supping on their briny repast they plunge into the everlasting dark of the deep until hunger pulls them once again to the light-dappled surface."  Or something along that line.

After a 30-minute cruise -- with no sealife sightings, a bit of a disappointment -- we disembark at Fox Island.  The island houses cabins for visitors who want to stay and explore, and a large lodge where a buffet of salad, bread, prime rib, salmon, and dessert is waiting.  As we are sitting down we find that dinner comes with a powerpoint slideshow by Ranger Earl.  He is a pear-shaped ringer for Droopy minus the nasal whine.  His show is informative, an overview of Alaskan wildlife, delivered in the same overwrought style as our cruise narrator.  Maybe all Alaskans and temporary workers are required to attend the same public speaking class.

When the ship's horn sounds two blasts we reboard and head out further into the bay.  Sailing close to the eastern cliffs the crew points out Dall sheep on impossible outcroppings, puffins flying like wind-up toys just above the ocean surface, thousands of circling seabirds, and dozens of sea lions barking from the rocky shore.  We even sight a grey whale, which shows its back three times in an arcing lunge.  Our cameras capture what they can, but they can't grasp the thrill of seeing wild things in these wild places.

The sun is low in the western sky as we return to Seward, long rays poking through the space between clouds and mountains, a spectacular show.  Who needs television in Alaska (at least during the summer?)

Alaska diary: The Kenai (Portage Valley)

Road trip.

That's the plan for our remaining two weeks in Alaska.  We cruise out of Anchorage late afternoon Sunday on Highway 1 in our rented Ford Focus, headed southeast along the Turnagain Arm of Cook Inlet.  We have chosen gas mileage and tent camping over gas guzzling and the creature comforts of an RV.  The bank of clouds squatting on the Kenai peaks where we are headed for the evening raise questions about that decision.  

Jason and Noah at the Lodge advised we stop and walk along the Turnagain Arm Trail if weather permitted a clear view of the bay.  The beluga whales might be passing through at this time of year, a sight worth a hike.  It is windy and clear, so we park at McHugh Creek and after a short uphill climb continue on a narrow path through birch and willow trees, wondering when we will come to a location where we can see the open water of the bay.

Before we reach a viewpoint, my brother almost steps in a large fresh bear scat, prominently blocking the trail.  Thank you to the Greeks for that perky term for poop and for the root of scatological, the prime descriptor of adolescent male humor.  The operative descriptors here, though, are large and fresh.  It is peppered with partly digested red bearberries and other bits of flora, a logroll fruitcake that calls for a high stepping bypass.  

I size up the landscape.  Steep wooded hill above and below me.  Dense undergrowth of berries, alder scrub, and cow parsnip.  Narrow pathway fore and aft.  My enthusiasm for beluga whales wanes, especially since I've left the bear spray in the car.  

My brother, Dale, forges on.  We finally reach a break in the foliage and are disappointed with the view.  Without field glasses, Captain Ahab would have trouble spotting a whale from this vantage point, too far from the water.  I have been making muted suggestions about turning around and Dale agrees.  We double time back to the car and on to the Portage Valley towards Whittier.

The Kenai area is far more mountainous that I envisioned with all the talk of salmon spawning up its many rivers.  Towards Portage and beyond, the snowy peaks cradle massive glaciers, blue and white tongues of ice striped with rubble licked from stone in their paths.  We pick a campsite at Willowaw for the night, right below a brilliant blue glacier visible from the road driving in.  

The campground is clean and about half occupied, mostly with large RV's.  Potable water at the push of a pump handle, a recently emptied pit toilet, and a bear box for storing food all promise a comfortable stay.  After dinner and dishes, we hike along a salmon viewing trail and past reconstructed spawning habitat that is explained by trailside interpretive signage.  The reparation project makes use of old logging ponds and has helped restore salmon numbers in the Portage Valley.  We will find many of these same kinds of helpful trails and signs, as well as spotless campgrounds, all over Alaska, which reflect the obvious care Forest Service and state park personnel take with the public lands entrusted to them.

The late evening sun is peeking through the clouds on surrounding peaks as we walk the half mile or so back to our campsite.  Temperatures are predicted to drop into the low 40's for the night.  We tuck into the tent around 10 p.m. and like every night this trip, we fall asleep while it is still light outside. 

During the night I wake to a steady rain.  By morning the tent is soaked where the weight of the rain has pushed the fly against the inner fabric.  Despite resealing the floor and fly prior to the trip, water has also seeped into the seam corners and some of our clothes are damp.  We eat a hurried breakfast -- oatmeal, hot chocolate, banana, tangerine -- and break camp, stuffing the wet tent into the trunk of the car.

We drive a few miles in the Whittier direction and stop at the Begich, Boggs Visitor Center, built on the remnants of a moraine from the Portage Glacier.  The building is named to honor Alaska Rep. Nick Begich and House Majority Leader Hale Boggs of Louisiana, both of whom died in a small plane that flew southward in an ice storm over the Portage Valley and Whiiter in 1972 and was never found.

Begich, a Democrat, was home campaigning for re-election.  Despite his disappearance, he posthumously won the election, but was replaced by a Republican, Don Young, in a special vote to officially fill his vacancy.  Young was the same fellow defeated by Begich in his posthumous election.  He has served as US Representative for Alaska since 1973.  Begich's son, Mark, a moderate Democrat, recently replaced longtime Republican Senator Ted Stevens, who ironically also died in a plane crash in 2010.  Stevens was on his way to a fishing lodge in a deHavilland Otter when it went down.

A busload of Korean tourists swarms around inside and out of the center, cameras clicking.   We weave our way through the crowd and stop to talk to a young ranger, recently arrived from Texas.  I ask him how he likes Alaska.  

"The sun shone here 10 days in June, five days in July, and so far one day in August," he answers.  No further explanation needed.  An older ranger at the information desk encourages us to head to the theater where a film, Voices from the Ice, is about to begin.  The photography and narration are National Geographic stunning, but still can't match the end of the film when the wall-sized screen retracts into the ceiling, curtains part, and we are looking out a bank of ceiling to floor windows at the Portage Glacier itself.  

After browsing the center's interactive exhibits on native flora and fauna, we head to the car.  The sun is squeezing through the clouds back towards where we entered the Portage Valley and we decide to head there for better weather and skip a trip to Whittier.   Within 10 miles, a glance at the rear view mirror confirms that the glaciers create their own weather system.  It looks like the rain has resumed behind us.  Ranger Rick may not see the sun for another month, if at all.  Hopefully it shines a bit more often on Seward, our next destination. 

Alaska Diary: Fishing Lake Creek

First a word about salmon.  Anadromous.  The fact the term sounds faintly testicular is not too far off the mark.  Anadromous refers to the reproductive habit of some ocean dwelling fish to swim up freshwater rivers and streams to spawn.

Because salmon spend part of their lives in salt water and part in fresh water, they have split personalities.  All of the five major salmon species in Alaska (king, chum, sockeye, silver and pink) look pretty similar in the ocean, size differences aside.  Their ocean-going silver appearance no doubt offers some evolutionary advantage -- perhaps allowing them to blend into the kaleidoscope of refracted light on the sea surface and thus make them less susceptible to predators.

Once they enter the rivers to spawn, however, males turn from silver to brilliant red (sockeye and king), a calico green (chums and pinks), or a rainbow red (silvers).  Theses bad boys develop imposing toothy hooked jaws, the better to ward off competitors and attract females, who like their sperm donors ugly.  Actually I have no more idea than fish biologists why they turn from Jekyl to Hyde.

To add to their identity issues, every species goes by a variety of names (not counting latin classifications).  Kings are commonly known as chinook salmon.  Silvers are coho.  Sockeyes deserve their common name, reds.  Chum are referred to variously as dog, keta, or calico salmon.  As for pinks . . .


We take positions in a long slower run where the river is divided by a narrow island.  Casey sets us up for spincasting to fish he says he sees "rolling."  We flick gaudy dyed-hair streamers -- patterns called clousers and egg sucking leeches in pink and chartreuse -- into the current and let them drift downstream.  My brother, Dale, hooks the first fish, a female pink salmon, a sleek silver fish with light green sides.  "Where's the pink?" I ask Casey.  In the ocean, he says, they are bright silver and display a pink stripe the length of both sides, similar to a rainbow trout.  He returns the fish to the river.

I land and release another within a few minutes, a dark green male with a hump back.  Hence another name for pink salmon: humpies.  I begin to think of these fish, who battle miles of upstream impediments and predators, as superheroes who leave behind their everyday identities and morph into their powerful alter egos to procreate.

We switch to flycasting and at the end of an hour have landed 8-10 fish apiece, the pinks all in the 3-4 pound range, and a couple of chum salmon pushing 10 pounds.  Dale is grinning so broadly he is in danger of swallowing his ears.  We still have not brought in a silver, the real target of our fishing trip and the only ones we will keep and freeze for the flight home.  They, along with sockeyes (or reds -- remember?), are considered best eating.  Before we head back, Dale finally foul hooks a silver, but regulations forbid keeping fish hooked anywhere besides the mouth.  At least we know a few have made it this far upriver.

In a normal fishing year, the silver salmon would be stacked in the creeks and rivers like fleets of shiny battleships.  And among them would be a flotilla of rainbow trout feeding on the roe deposited by all the spawners.  This, we discover, is not a normal year.  Record winter snowfalls and a cool wet summer have pushed everything back a week or two.  Planning a trip like this a crap shoot, and we've come up double sixes.  But, Casey assures us there's always hope that the silvers will appear within the span of our 3 day stay, so we head back to the lodge happy and optimistic.

Along the way, he points out a large track in the sandy bar about the size of a dinner plate, probably a black bear.  I'm voting for a day in the boat tomorrow.  We agree to head out at 6 a.m. in the morning.

Dale has another rough night, still recovering from our halibut poisoning.  My alarm jars me out of an uneasy dream (bears involved), and I dress quickly in the morning cold to head for the lodge and a cup of coffee before we get in the boat.  The rain has returned and dimpled puddles on the pathways indicate more to come.  Casey meets me and asks if I have seen the river.

I mosey down with him and where we were able to walk on dry ground yesterday is now flooded.  The water has risen over a foot overnight.  It carries silt and debris, a roiling dirty chocolate deluge that promises difficult fishing.  We decided to let Dale sleep in and recover and try later after lunch, hoping for no more storms upstream.

We meet after lunch and head upstream on one of the lodge's "jet boats" -- a flat bottom aluminum skiff with an outboard motor that Casey pilots like he's playing a video game with the river.  Full throttle.  Weaving through a roadmap of channels and speeding close to fallen trees and riverbanks.

Anchoring in a side channel, I cast from the back of the boat while Dale gets out and fishes from waist-deep water a bit upstream.  On about the tenth cast of a chartreuse clouser into the seam of water where our side channel meets the flow of the main river, I hook a silver.  It stays down at first but then surfaces and dances across the current as coho salmon are known to do.  Casey mans the net for this fish and we boat a five pound beauty, which will find its way to the grill when I get home.

After a hour or so of many pinks, we speed to another spot, a small side backwater that looks unlikely but turns out to be packed with fish avoiding the turgid swollen river.  In the time we spend there, we both catch and release a dozen pinks.  I land a stunning male rainbow trout and fight a lunker chum for five minutes, as does my brother with another even bigger.  Things are looking bright, despite the lousy water conditions.

After dinner we head out once more for another couple of hours on the river.  The sun is finally shining.  Daylight lingers until close to 11 p.m. this time of year in Alaska.  Despite an even higher and roilier river the next two days, we continue to fly fish with streamers and catch and release dozens of pinks and a chum or two, and keep another nice silver which Dale my brother lands in the same channel where I caught mine.  Our arms and shoulders ache from casting and pulling in hooked fish.  But, we are the ones who are really hooked.  Hooked on Alaska.  Hooked on salmon fishing.  Hooked on the hospitality of the Wilderness Place Lodge.