* * *
"So, you done much dog-mushin' Dave?"
Jerry is 20 feet in front of me, striding effortlessly in his
snowshoes. I am attempting to excavate my left leg, buried to
the thigh in a 5-foot drift. For the last two hours we have been
hiking a ridge above a river that Tyler and Chris are fishing.
It is my second day in snowshoes and I am slowly adjusting. Which
means that I only crash through the packed upper crust every few
hundred feet now. If I'm careful to walk in Jerry's footsteps
it happens even less often.
"Can't say that I have, Jer," I reply. "We don't get too many
opportunities for that sort of thing in Philadelphia."
Jerry is nonplussed. "Oh well," he says, "your loss."
He continues on, indicating various signs of wildlife and helpful
natural landmarks to guide our way. While Chris and Tyler cast
hopeful flies at an elusive salmon run, Jerry and I search for
a suitable campsite. On the north-facing slopes the low-hanging
pine branches conceal deep, guarded hollows, offering both effective
shelter and exposed tundra, useful for campfires. With plenty
of trees to choose from, we settle on a sturdy Alaskan pine with
a wide skirt of branches at the edge of a large clearing. This
way, I suggest, we can see the bears coming. Jerry throws me a
humorless grin.
"Least you're partly right. The grizzlies hibernate over there,
on the south-facing slopes, so if you see 'em, that's
where they'll be. It's still a bit early, but now's when they
start coming out."
I attempt in vain to imagine a worse scenario than this: A large
animal with claws and fangs sleeps all winter, trims down to fighting
weight by consuming its own accumulated fat, and then emerges,
lean and rapacious and pissed off because there's still 4 feet
of snow on the ground. And me, incapable of traveling 15 feet
without tangling the tennis rackets strapped to my feet. I think
of our pilot Jay and his gun advice. Shoot him in
the leg.
Jerry assures me that the bears won't be looking to consume
meat immediately. That in fact they have to consume a
vegetarian diet initially to "clean out the ol' system." Roots,
herbs and exposed lichen constitute the first course. Despite
this caveat, Jerry reminds me, all of the precautions we have
discussed remain valid.
"No reason to end up a guest at that second course."
We have leveled out a section of the hollow for our tent and
sleds and are about to return for Tyler and Chris when an abrupt
movement in a stand of pines along the river catches Jerry's eye.
I turn just in time to see an adult bald eagle tumble from its
nest and take to the air. Unfurling its full length, it thrums
the air with two rapid wing strokes before coasting an invisible
current to the opposite edge of the valley. It is the first bald
eagle I have ever seen in the wild. At the far side of the river
basin it pivots, angling to dive at the meandering water. I am
stunned by both its wingspan and its agility. Jerry smiles, noting
that the eagle is after the same slippery quarry as our two friends
with the fly rods: the reticent April salmon. Tracking low across
the ice-choked river it hesitates a moment, nearly stalling in
midair, and then strikes, pulling its purchase from the shallows
with an efficiency that our companions downriver would envy.
I turn to Jerry, my breath lodged somewhere between my throat
and lungs.
"I guess," he says, nodding, "you don't see much of that sort
of thing in Philadelphia either." Without bothering to wait for
an answer, he turns, retracing his careful steps through the snow.
* * *
My line keeps freezing, dropping thickly in the water rather
than settling deftly on the surface to attract the fish that allegedly
lurk in this river. I attribute my poor day of fishing to this
fact. Tyler attributes it to the fact that I keep burying my back-cast
in the snowdrift behind me.
"Still," he offers, "how many people can say they learned how
to fly-fish in snowshoes? And it's actually better here because
there aren't as many leaves and bushes to snag your line on."
I consider the spacious snowfields that surround the crescent
of river we're fishing. Leaves and bushes? I'm trying my best
not to snag my line on ears and fingers.
We have been on our own since early morning. Jay Hudson's plane
came humming over the far mountains hours ago, returning for Chris
and Jerry. We have been listening, scanning the skies, waiting
for its departure from the lake, several miles west. The reappearance
of the Piper in the clouds will signify something important for
us: three days of isolation. No schedules to keep. No calls to
return. No envelope icon popping brightly onto a monitor with
the perky reminder, "You've got mail." None of that. Nothing to
buy or sell, no one to persuade or convince or lie to. Simply
snow, sky, woods and water. The days extend before us, unformed
and full of promise.
Tyler catches himself midcast. "You hear that?"
Jay's plane.
The Piper's distant humming evolves into a distinctive sputter
and cough as the plane clears the tree line and tacks toward our
position on the river. At its approach we wave our gloved hands
like idiots, hoping they don't mistake our send-off for a distress
signal. Jay acknowledges our good wishes, dipping the wings on
his craft twice in what we take to be the Hudson Air version of
"so long."
The small plane shudders across the valley, disappearing into
the low cirrus clouds encircling the mountains. I watch until
I can't see it anymore, all the while poking at the ice on my
leader line. Somewhere to my left, Tyler is casting perfect gossamer
curves with his fly rod.
* * *
Clear skies mean cold nights. We learned that the
first evening. Despite enveloping ourselves in sleeping bags rated
to minus 20 degrees and a windproof, four-season tent, we suffered
a freezing night of fitful sleep. Tyler tightened the hood of
his mummy sack until only his nose protruded and then dozed, intermittently,
face-down in his parka. I slept with my contact lens solution
between my legs and awoke to find it a slushy mess in the morning.
Our 32-oz. water bottles emerged as blocks of ice. A morning campfire
was never so welcome.
But clear nights also mean spectacular skies. With Tyler cooking
dinner, I stand with my back to the campfire and stare up at the
emerging stars. The embers kicking off the fire pit rise past
me, extinguishing against the vivid constellations already poking
holes in the darkness. The hiss and pop of flame on wood is the
only discernible sound.
And then Tyler's boot catches fire.
When you're in the Alaskan wilderness during winter, there are
certain indispensable pieces of equipment one should not be without.
A good, warm jacket is recommended. A tent comes in handy. A sleeping
bag is not to be underestimated. The odd pair of boots is certainly
helpful. Tyler had been drying his by the fire after
a day of hiking and fishing. The insoles, quite wet, were extracted
from the boots and propped close to the flame. I was to keep an
eye on them. But the clear sky is something to behold.
By the time I spin around, the left sole liner is shrunken to
half its size and the right boot is engulfed. Thinking quickly,
I hurl the flaming boot into the night, well past the secure glow
of our campfire. The melted sole is unsalvageable. Tyler, in his
socks, is not pleased.
"Christ, these are hiking boots," he says, brandishing
the surviving footwear. "You'd think they could be used in the
vicinity of camp fires!"
He inquires about the status of the matching shoe. I look blankly
into the darkness.
"Devine? How bad is the other boot?"
It is no small thing, tracking down a heaved boot in a dark
snowfield when you are afraid that grizzly bears lurk just beyond
your campfire. It takes me awhile just to get my snowshoes back
on. Reluctantly, I step into the shadows, searching for the charred
boot. When at last I discover it, extracting it perhaps 50 feet
from our campsite, I stand back up to a darkness so thorough and
a bowl of stars so bright that I nearly stumble from craning my
neck. It is then that the horizon comes unhinged from the ground.
It begins innocently enough, a faint light beyond the trees,
as if a distant city we had been unaware of is now suddenly illuminated.
Gradually, it expands into a green glow that elevates from the
horizon into the sky.
I turn back to the campsite, wondering if Tyler is seeing this.
The fluttering light separates into emerald strands, radiating
across the darkness in ribbons that stretch from one edge of night
to the other. The light-ribbons themselves twist and twirl with
no apparent rhythm. The whole sky shimmers.
I am reluctant to make my way back to the camp, fearing I will
somehow miss the end. Will it be like fireworks? Is there a grand
finale? Tyler is waiting when I get back. He has forgotten about
the boot. He stares at the sky as well. The aurora borealis.
The famous Northern Lights.
I have no idea how long we sit there, huddled on the logs around
the fire pit. The hours fold in upon themselves, in the way that
time condenses in a dream. I am stunned by the silence, the stillness.
There is little else. The only movement is the convulsing emerald
sky. The world feels far away.
What had she said -- the bartender? I needed to find a hole
in the noise.
With the night gradually swallowing back its colors, the cold
beginning to descend and the fire collapsing into ash, I think
that perhaps, for a moment, we have.
* * *
David Devine lives and writes in Portland, Oregon. He and Tyler
Farmer '95 journeyed to Alaska in April 2000.
