July 20-22
At Igloo, seven clustered sites along the creek, a wolf closure across the water where bipeds are barred passage. Arrived & set up camp before hiking a mile each direction from camp to spy possible routes for tomorrow. Camped between the steeper face of Igloo Mountain & the sloping green hedging to the lofted red vaulted rock atop Cathedral—bushwacked towards the former & found the going slow (though I did see a sizable dall sheep in repose above a copse of dwarf willow). Following a game trail towards the latter I saw a more accessible point of entry along the east side, where a sinuous ridge insinuates itself gently from the broad basal slope & follows serpentine towards the summit. Tonight, then, I’ll stay in & get to sleep early after reading some Emerson & consciously reveling in the open air, the susurration of the creek. I will haunt the loneliness that haunts me, give myself to it entire—heart in me, there is yet some ghost indomitable, some captive spark cradled in my cupped hand, little flame I carry place to place, fragile light to fend from me the fell of darkness that would come—
***
On top of Cathedral, gusts of fifty mph on exposed ridgelines, but otherwise the sun bathes the Teklanika valley to the east & the jutting tip of Denali cutting through attendant clouds to the west, white & crisp with (always) newfallen snow.
Had to hurry down, a dark & foreboding thundercloud creeping towards the where I stood. Opted to descend the way I’d intended to come up, sort of, though was barred passage to the gentle line I’d spied & found myself scurrying & scrambling down screefields & talus, where rockslides laid the granite at severe angles that shifted precariously with each footfall. The way up I chose to cross a much steeper chute on an ungulate path, which I ought likely not to have done. Pleased to be here to tell of it—the actual climbing involved much more technical than I was prepared for, at times frightfully so. The summit justified the trouble, & justified too the blind plummet through thick stands of dwarf willow & birch afterwards, the soggy give of the lichened tundra often ten inches under each bootstep.
After Cathedral, ate a sandwich & started walking west, making nearly three more miles before a bus came by to flag down. Went out to Eielson & found the mountain stunningly visible still, clothed at its periphery in cloud as if caught in dishabille shunting off some gossamer gown, fending raindrops light & rippling from its visage. Walked down to the McKinley Bar, such as it is that far east, spying along ridgelines & gullies, looking up gulch & valley to see where sourced, how minted.
On the bus back saw a man backhand his teenage son in the face at a rest area for failing to properly clean the window. There briefly, I thought perhaps it is enough in this life merely to refrain from being despicable. A German tourist stood in the parked bus & shouted “that man is hitting that child” & sprinted to intervene. Thought perhaps there was some extant sense in us yet, some little nobility intact. Ended up talking to a couple my age from Kenny Lake outside Valdez, where they built a cabin & self-subsist, leaving each winter for India, for Mexico, for parts removed. He is a carpenter & fishes Bristol Bay one month a year; she is a yoga teacher on trade—vegetables, housework, homebrew, etc. They tell me a lot of people our age are finding such a lifestyle feasible & rewarding in Alaska. They give me their contact information & encourage me to be in touch should I find myself near Valdez. Likely I will, & likely I’ll call. Alaska strikes me as one small town so often, spread thin across all these miles.
At camp, ate soup & a roll & washed my face & hands in the creek after filtering water for the night. The sky portends rain, clotted gray on gray, no streak of blue. I have Emerson for company again tonight, & a little mason jar with a sip or two of bourbon. My thermarest sprung a leak & the gravel bruises my hipbones in sleeping, so I’ll need it.
Curious, this whole trip. The hike this morning the best I’ve felt in some time—
***
Tramping around Igloo waiting for the bus—followed game trail dotted with bear print north along the creek & found it opened into a valley by which northwest access to the mountain behind Igloo would be a fine possibility for a future hike—perhaps the south side of Igloo itself reveals a gentler approach than the north side, itself all crag & channels of steep rockslide chute punctuated by myalite bluffs & tufts of awkward spruce leaning naked against the elements. The south ridge looks both higher & more traversable, once achieved. This plotting that surrounds wilderness hiking grows on me.
It has been a beautiful morning, sun bathing the landscape, absent of substantial cloud. Washed up a bit in Igloo Creek, its water profoundly clear & cold, its riparian song over rockbed & cleaving boulder gentle & constant. Packed up camp, which puts a surfeit of weight on my daypack & makes for especially difficult passage in tundra—I will need to pack in an overnight bag next time, or simply pack lighter. & so I head back to my daily life, my speaking life. Generally a few nights of sleeping on gravel conjure covetous visions of mattress & roof, but even with bruises on my hips & sits bone the thought of returning to my life with Roy presents itself clearly as a matter of necessity rather than desire. I have weighed more considerably the option of living in a tent for the remainder of the summer & don’t find it at all lacking in compare.
& beyond that I have let my thoughts remain undercurrents, trying not to conjure them from their quiet, trying instead to focus again on tasks at hand, on the dappling sun, the vermillion granite bluffs, the water of the creek parting & merging again around my outstretched hand; I have tried to shoo sadness from me, refocus my heart’s gaze, find in me those extant spaces where a solitary beauty yet breathes individuated & plainly unadorned. My smallness under shadow of a mountain & still, the eyeblink some forging mathematic of a life lived, the breath its careful balance, buoy in a tempest. Perhaps I am too much alone. Perhaps not enough alone.
***
As I transcribe this, Roy pauses in his snoring to engage in a several minutes of pyrotechnic flatulence before rolling over & snoring again. Welcome home.
***
On top of Cathedral, gusts of fifty mph on exposed ridgelines, but otherwise the sun bathes the Teklanika valley to the east & the jutting tip of Denali cutting through attendant clouds to the west, white & crisp with (always) newfallen snow.
Had to hurry down, a dark & foreboding thundercloud creeping towards the where I stood. Opted to descend the way I’d intended to come up, sort of, though was barred passage to the gentle line I’d spied & found myself scurrying & scrambling down screefields & talus, where rockslides laid the granite at severe angles that shifted precariously with each footfall. The way up I chose to cross a much steeper chute on an ungulate path, which I ought likely not to have done. Pleased to be here to tell of it—the actual climbing involved much more technical than I was prepared for, at times frightfully so. The summit justified the trouble, & justified too the blind plummet through thick stands of dwarf willow & birch afterwards, the soggy give of the lichened tundra often ten inches under each bootstep.
After Cathedral, ate a sandwich & started walking west, making nearly three more miles before a bus came by to flag down. Went out to Eielson & found the mountain stunningly visible still, clothed at its periphery in cloud as if caught in dishabille shunting off some gossamer gown, fending raindrops light & rippling from its visage. Walked down to the McKinley Bar, such as it is that far east, spying along ridgelines & gullies, looking up gulch & valley to see where sourced, how minted.
On the bus back saw a man backhand his teenage son in the face at a rest area for failing to properly clean the window. There briefly, I thought perhaps it is enough in this life merely to refrain from being despicable. A German tourist stood in the parked bus & shouted “that man is hitting that child” & sprinted to intervene. Thought perhaps there was some extant sense in us yet, some little nobility intact. Ended up talking to a couple my age from Kenny Lake outside Valdez, where they built a cabin & self-subsist, leaving each winter for India, for Mexico, for parts removed. He is a carpenter & fishes Bristol Bay one month a year; she is a yoga teacher on trade—vegetables, housework, homebrew, etc. They tell me a lot of people our age are finding such a lifestyle feasible & rewarding in Alaska. They give me their contact information & encourage me to be in touch should I find myself near Valdez. Likely I will, & likely I’ll call. Alaska strikes me as one small town so often, spread thin across all these miles.
At camp, ate soup & a roll & washed my face & hands in the creek after filtering water for the night. The sky portends rain, clotted gray on gray, no streak of blue. I have Emerson for company again tonight, & a little mason jar with a sip or two of bourbon. My thermarest sprung a leak & the gravel bruises my hipbones in sleeping, so I’ll need it.
Curious, this whole trip. The hike this morning the best I’ve felt in some time—
***
Tramping around Igloo waiting for the bus—followed game trail dotted with bear print north along the creek & found it opened into a valley by which northwest access to the mountain behind Igloo would be a fine possibility for a future hike—perhaps the south side of Igloo itself reveals a gentler approach than the north side, itself all crag & channels of steep rockslide chute punctuated by myalite bluffs & tufts of awkward spruce leaning naked against the elements. The south ridge looks both higher & more traversable, once achieved. This plotting that surrounds wilderness hiking grows on me.
It has been a beautiful morning, sun bathing the landscape, absent of substantial cloud. Washed up a bit in Igloo Creek, its water profoundly clear & cold, its riparian song over rockbed & cleaving boulder gentle & constant. Packed up camp, which puts a surfeit of weight on my daypack & makes for especially difficult passage in tundra—I will need to pack in an overnight bag next time, or simply pack lighter. & so I head back to my daily life, my speaking life. Generally a few nights of sleeping on gravel conjure covetous visions of mattress & roof, but even with bruises on my hips & sits bone the thought of returning to my life with Roy presents itself clearly as a matter of necessity rather than desire. I have weighed more considerably the option of living in a tent for the remainder of the summer & don’t find it at all lacking in compare.
& beyond that I have let my thoughts remain undercurrents, trying not to conjure them from their quiet, trying instead to focus again on tasks at hand, on the dappling sun, the vermillion granite bluffs, the water of the creek parting & merging again around my outstretched hand; I have tried to shoo sadness from me, refocus my heart’s gaze, find in me those extant spaces where a solitary beauty yet breathes individuated & plainly unadorned. My smallness under shadow of a mountain & still, the eyeblink some forging mathematic of a life lived, the breath its careful balance, buoy in a tempest. Perhaps I am too much alone. Perhaps not enough alone.
***
As I transcribe this, Roy pauses in his snoring to engage in a several minutes of pyrotechnic flatulence before rolling over & snoring again. Welcome home.
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