The infinite wilderness of Alaska and the colorful gold rush
tales of James Michener, Jack London and Robert Service had long
captivated my wife, Maiya, and me. We finally decided the best
way to experience Alaska up close would be to accept the daunting
challenge of hiking the historic Chilkoot trail, the mountain
pass that links Alaska with Canada's Yukon interior.
We knew it was not going to be easy. Both Alaskan and Canadian
park officials had alerted us months before that the Chilkoot
was a serious test of mind and body for the most experienced of
hikers. Prior to our departure in summer 1999, we spent several
weekends trekking up and down New Mexico trails while adjusting
to carrying heavy packs. We also received expert guidance from
Patty, a hiking friend who had successfully navigated the Chilkoot
three years before. She and two others would join us on our Alaska
expedition.
Our journey to Alaska made us acutely aware of how feeble words
are in capturing our last frontier's incomprehensible beauty.
The connecting flight from Seattle to Juneau appeared to be a
surreal retreat back into winter; below us lay a shimmering white
blanket of endless majestic peaks. On the ferry the following
day up the Lynn Canal to Skagway, Alaska, we watched seals, otters
and whales frolic in the frigid glacial waters as we passed through
a corridor of towering mountains.
In the late 1890s, Skagway was a Klondike boom town for thousands
of dream seekers hoping to find the mother lode. Today it is the
Alaskan version of Disney's Frontierland, a small community totally
dependent on the summer cruise ship tourist trade. The Tlingit
Indians referred to the area appropriately as Sca wa
(strong winds).
Much like our predecessors a century earlier, we were anxious
to begin our five-day hiking odyssey. We were so excited to begin
the Chilkoot that we did not allow ourselves much time to appreciate
the lush rainforest or the swift-moving emerald Taiya River nearby.
But we did take note of the bear scat, considerable evidence that
we were not alone on the trail.
We arrived early at our first camp site a few hours later and
had our choice of tent placements. The rush of the Taiya was hypnotic,
the freeze-dried pasta tasted good. More importantly, we weren't
sore and felt validated that all the StairMaster exercises and
hikes were paying off.
We adopted a more leisurely pace the second day, and our confidence
grew with each hour on the trail. At our second camp site, Sheep
Camp, we had time to attend the ranger's talk after dinner. Ranger
Adam Brown's presentation tempered our enthusiasm. It was raining
on Chilkoot Pass, he said, and we would need more time to reach
the top, representing a vertical climb of more than 3,500 feet.
Given the sobering news, we awoke at 4 a.m. to begin the three-and-a-half-mile
hike to the summit. The "Brown rain," as we would come to call
it, became an angry storm of driving sleet, howling winds and
thick fog. The smooth trail of the previous two days deteriorated
into a mass of boulders, loose shale and glacial snowfields. Gale-force
winds threatened to blow us off the pass. We struggled to hold
on to abandoned cable lines along the rocks.
The final half-mile, the famed Scales portion of the "Golden
Stairs," was nearly impossible. Drenched and drained, we fought
for nearly three hours to claw up the 45 percent incline to the
top. Our plight was further complicated by the fog that obliterated
our view of the summit.
Somehow we reached Chilkoot Pass and the summit's Canadian ranger
station, where we left Alaska and entered British Columbia. Euphoric
over our achievement, we headed downhill to a nearby shelter for
warmth. As I was about to enter the shelter, I heard Maiya scream.
I looked back to see her lying on her side. She was clutching
her left leg in agony. I would learn later that a powerful Chilkoot
gust had lifted her high into the air before slamming her to the
ground.
No ranger was around, so our friend Patty, a nurse by profession,
quickly assumed coordination for her care. It was clear the injury
was severe, and we solicited some volunteers to form a human transport
system. We carefully moved Maiya to the shelter in an effort to
prevent hypothermia.
The 12-by-12-foot barren, unheated shelter would become our
home for the next two agonizing days. When Christine, the Canadian
park ranger, arrived at the shelter a few hours later, she told
us a helicopter rescue would only be considered once the storm
had cleared.
No one knew how long we would be kept hostage at Chilkoot pass,
and I felt helpless as I tried to comfort my pain-wracked wife.
The rangers kept Maiya warm with hot meals, and we were able to
pack snow on her leg to prevent further swelling.
We both rejoiced when we saw blue skies appearing to the south
two days later. In a few hours a recreational helicopter from
Skagway landed, and we were able to carry her by stretcher to
the chopper. Following X-rays in Skagway, Maiya was flown by bush
plane to Bartlett Hospital in Juneau. The base of Maiya's tibia
had fractured, we learned, and the X-rays of her leg looked like
a jigsaw puzzle. Concerned about the complexity of the injury
and the probability that further surgeries would be necessary,
doctors there decided Maiya should not be operated on until her
return to Albuquerque.
Arranging a 2,000-mile flight back to New Mexico was a formidable
task. Maiya's injured leg required full extension, and it took
five days to secure available special seating. After two layovers
and a bumpy, stormy flight from Denver, we arrived home. It would
be another three days before Maiya finally got her operation.
Over the last three years, Maiya has had two more surgeries,
including a total knee replacement in 2001. Thanks to outstanding
medical care and her strict commitment to daily exercises, Maiya
now walks unaided.
We both realized that our emotional recovery would not be complete
until we journeyed back to Alaska. This past summer we flew to
Anchorage -- giving Maiya an opportunity to explore her ancestral
homeland (a Navajo, she is a descendant of the Athabaskans in
Alaska and northwest Canada) while I returned to the Chilkoot
trail. On June 21, 2002, I hiked up the pass and prayed at the
scene of her accident.
* * *
Patrick Tyrrell is executive director of the National Association
of Social Workers, New Mexico chapter, and a former regional board
member of the Notre Dame Alumni Association. Maiya is school social
worker on a Navajo Reservation at Canoncito, New Mexico.
