8-11-08
Walker Lake
I’m sitting on the edge of a raft next to bear boxes creatively labeled “Breakfast 1” and “Breakfast 2”, watching three fishermen in the lake. They’ve waded out to their chests, protected by expensive rubber and Gore-Tex outfits courtesy of Helly Hanson, Simms, Patagonia, and Muck’s Boot Company. I wonder if they’re cold, but they seem completely at peace. Beyond them the lake stretches out indeterminately, disappearing behind the nearest peninsula. An hour ago, it mirrored clouds and mountain peaks on its glassy surface, momentarily revealing orange and purple stones under aquamarine water where the sun broke through the clouds. Now, with the light further down in the sky, the lake looks dark and mysterious, no longer showing off the stones beneath its surface nor reflecting ridgelines back to the sky. It keeps its secrets hidden beneath a charcoal-colored calm. Every once in a while, one of the fisherman yanks hard on his rod, and a splash breaks the surface some distance in front of him, disturbing the lake’s secrecy and solitude for a brief moment. Soon enough, though, the last circular ripple extends away, and the water’s surface closes in on itself again.
8-12-08
Point Bar, River-Left of Long Island (Above Upper Kobuk Canyon)
I’m learning that the river is an incredibly patient agent of change, moving mountains downstream one meander bend at a time, cutting down again through floodplains it created millions of years ago. I admire its single-minded simplicity – tirelessly working to move stones to the ocean – and am awed by the beauty it manages to create along the way.
8-13-08
The River and My German Mother
I am amazed at how meticulous a river can be. Walking this point bar from top to bottom, or shoreline to tree line, I find that the rocks have been carefully sorted by size and texture. No matter how badly I need a larger rock for a tent stake, I cannot find one in this place where the river decided only to lay down 2-inch gravels. The river drops its heavier load first, leaving bigger items on the upstream side of a bend and smaller ones towards the bottom. Then, to be sure that no nook or cranny is forgotten or unattended, the river returns in a calmer state later in the year to fill in all the little holes with sand. My mom would appreciate the order of this place, hidden in the apparent impulsiveness of this vast wilderness. I think she would admire how thorough the river is in all its sorting and housekeeping. It is so unlike her daughter, who never could seem to remember to make the bed, or move the couch aside when sweeping the floor.
8-15-08
Sun-Shiny Day (Olympic Beach)
The camp tonight is beautiful. We are on a broad beach that stretches around the river’s bend, with several smaller channels pouring over an island that separates us from the main channel. The clouds expand in all directions across the sky, as does the spruce forest that lines the opposite banks of the river. I’m sipping a drink right now, listening to the sounds of the kitchen nearby – a sizzling frying pan, knife slicing through crisp vegetables, laughter, and discussions over which spice might go better in tonight’s meal. Gerard and Peter just pulled a seine through the water, and Rob is building us a fire. All of these fairly normal nightly activities are made all the more sweet this evening by the simple fact that the sun is beating down on my shoulders, warming my skin and drying out the wool socks that have been wet now for two days. It is truly a beautiful evening, in a beautiful place.
Today we sampled at Reed River and Beaver Creek. Beaver creek was an amazing place geomorphologically… the Kobuk had blocked up the historic tributary channel and created a point bar across it, changing the course of Beaver Creek’s final mile by almost 90 degrees. There are constant reminders out here of how impulsive and dynamic this place can be.
8-19-08
Dancing in the Rain
After leaving the Pah confluence yesterday, we started paddling towards a curtain of grey rain that hung over the hilltops ahead of us. We were still in a pocket of sunshine, and the scene had the aura of some kind of epic journey; the dark and scary forest looming ahead as the white shining mountains fade into the distance. The colors and contrast were beautiful. The ridges behind the spruce were dark blue, with a veil of gray in front of them that stretched from treetops to the thunderheads above. Minutes later, the rain and thunder were upon us. We pulled over on a gravel island to see if it was a worthy camp spot. The Council of Camp Sites tromped off to conduct their bi or tri-nightly Decision Summit (whether or not we should camp there, based upon a tricky combination of factors: availability of camp spots opposite from groover spots, room for the kitchen, and the probability of finding a better spot downstream). Deb started singing “Should I Stay or Should I Go Now”, substituting “We” for “I”. Carson and John were standing on either side of her, bouncing up and down like Umpa Lumpas and providing the appropriate guitar riff after each line Deb sang. It was hilarious, especially with everyone in goofy raingear. It looked like too much fun, so Dan and I jumped up and joined the band. The rain was hitting the water in front of us so hard that each drop caused a spray of five more. As the thunder clapped for us in the sky, we danced in circles, singing at the very tops of our lungs.