As I was looking through images to send to Photoshelter.com, I relived our flight over Mt. McKinley last summer and thought I'd share another day from my Alaska journal.August 10, 2007. A good night’s sleep, a shower, couple loads of laundry were medicine for the soul. My original plan for coming to the South side of Denali National Park was to participate in some of the commercial activities—whitewater rafting, flightseeing, airboat rides. At the tour desk they told us there is no whitewater only flat, slow rivers which never interest Bill. The flightseeing prices are steep. We hemmed and hawed. The sky was as clear and blue as a fall day in New England. If we were going to fly, today was the day to do it.
I interviewed by phone every tour company and got a good feeling from Alaska Bush Air. They fly float planes from a picturesque lake we’d seen on the Talkeetna Spur Road. The woman’s name was Molly and compared to all the others her prices were reasonable for a two-hour tour of Denali with a landing on a glacier lake.
The office is a log cabin with a roof made of grass. Molly showed us the flight plan on a topo map. It took Bill and I two seconds to decide to go for the full two-hour ride. We grabbed coats, binos and cameras. Molly introduced us to Jason, our pilot. The takeoff was so smooth we didn’t notice we were off the ground. Bill was delighted to ride ‘right seat.’ Ryley and I were cozy in back, looking out over-sized windows. Ryley loved talking into the mic on his yellow headset. In season Talkeetna is the busiest private airport in the United States, but there is no control tower to keep track of all the traffic. Pilots calmly announce flight plans and key location marks to each other.
First, we flew over the Susitna River valley, its silty waters still high from yesterday’s torrential rain, its banks lined with spruce trees. We saw many lakes and wetlands. From the back seat we couldn’t track our approach to the mountains, so we didn’t realize we were there until the Tokositnas were beneath us and all around us. We followed the Ruth Glacier straight into Denali’s belly. Our steady craft travelled only a couple hundred feet above craggy peaks and glaciers, crevice-filled with the late summer heat. Little pools of aquamarine glistened like rock candy. This is a vast, desolate and intimidating place. Denali means the Great One in the Athabasca language. Seeing it from this vantage point, it is easy to understand why they deem it holy. We banked so close to a granite wall Ryley exclaimed, “I can see the texture of the rock!” Don Sheldon’s amphitheater is the bowl-like base camp. Climbing season over, it was abandoned, only the faintest human prints showing. Jason pointed out the climber’s route along a ridge to the summit. Base camp in the amphitheater is at 7,500’. On this sunny, cloudless, windless day, the climb looked possible from up here.
In order to climb McKinley, mountaineers pay $200 for a National Park permit. From mid-May to mid-July they’re on the mountain. This year about 1200 set out, only half succeeded; two died on Denali and three others died on Foraker and Mt. Hunter. Park Rangers monitor climbers from the 7,500’ base camp as well as a 14,000’ base camp. Altitude negatively affects decision-making so rangers stay at the 14,000’ camp for two-week periods. All human waste is containerized and flown off the mountain. Climbers must eat 4-5,000 calories
a day until they reach the last section when they eat very little. Tax dollars pay for rescue teams and vessels.
Cruising across Tokositna Glacier, we look down its 35-mile length. It looks river-like and gray with gravel, not smooth white ice. I imagined a swirling wind spinning like a dervish through the glacier valley whipping dust, gravel and ice particles all over everything. Jason warned us to clear our ears frequently for the descent to Chelatna Lake. This was my favorite part of the flight. The plane banked hard at every curve of the river below. As we descended below the treeline, we couldn’t help but gasp at the beauty of the turquoise lake below. We glided smooth as ducks onto its smooth surface and parked on a white sandy beach. Jason and Ryley tossed perfectly flat skimming stones. Ryley spotted fresh bear tracks. Mama grizz and two cubs had been fishing here recently. You can never let your guard down in Alaska. Another float plane landed giving its Anchorage passengers a chance to pee before continuing into the bush somewhere.
Time to go. We took off and I was trying to get a shot of the lake and the mountains and saw an aluminum canoe-looking boat submerged, only one paddle aboard. I said so into my mic. Then I spied people on shore waving frantically. I said so. Jason said nothing and for a minute didn’t change direction, leaving us to wonder. Then, he banked and landed near the boat. The men were frantically calling because they didn’t hear Jason’s calls to them. Deftly he maneuvered the plane to the shipwrecked vessel—a portable fishing boat, its motor fully submerged. He tied it to the back of one of the floats, piling the backpack, fly rod and paddle on top of the float. We drove over to the other paddle. Bill asked if these are the fishermen he dropped off in the morning and he confessed, yes. The ultimate man of few words, it was much later we learned that the sunken boat was his! The dry fisherman with all the stuff hanging from his waders was panicky. The other guy was in the boat solo when it capsized in the middle of the lake. The dry one thought his friend had hypothermia, but the guy seemed okay when he came over; shivering but lucid. Jason asked if the motor was running when it capsized—yes, they answered. Jason wasn’t pleased. The wet guy should have ridden with us, but wouldn’t leave his buddy. They agreed that Jason would fly us back and return for them right away. They were lucky; the sun saved their lives. We didn’t mention the grizzly tracks.
Airborne again we crossed back over the river valley to Fish Creek. Jason greased another landing. Float planes can land on water, snow, ice, even grass—the ideal way to get around back country Alaska. Molly showed us a pair of sockeye battling the current in the stream to the lake. They were red and when Bill watched closely, he realized they were spawning. The female turned sideways to clear a space with her tailfin, laying eggs that the exhausted male would fertilize before dying. Afterwards, she would cover the eggs as best she could to hide them from hungry trout.
Since it was raining when we were last in Talkeetna, I didn’t have any pictures and wanted to return. It’s such an odd place. We fed leaves to two captive caribou. Bill and Ryley touched their velvety antlers. A naked, obnoxious guy baited tourists for attention on the Talkeetna River beach. “Welcome to Talkeetna,” he sang strumming his guitar. Almost 80 degrees, we attributed his attire to a dose of spring fever; his mouth deserved a dose of Ivory. “Keep your eyes on the prize,” he called to a passing raft holding his penis.
Ryley and I split a pie at the well-recommended Mile High Pizza while Bill ate BBQ. At the hotel, Ryley and I soaked in the hot tub, a view of the snowy mountain peaks in the distance. Back in the lower 48, Barry Bonds hit his 756th. Ugh.
