Alpine Style.

[MikeC]

Pop quiz: What were you doing 30 years ago this month -- back in 1988?


Working?  Playing?  Gap year?


I was working 2 jobs while stashing money to leave for college.  I'd graduated high school mere months before, and was working as hard as I could to buy a new Trapper Keeper and a full suite of highlighters so that I'd be ready for a slew of 100-level classes.  My thrift-store Schwinn Continental 10-speed was tuned and ready to get me around campus, with Glen Plake and Scot Schmidt posters locked and loaded.


None of that is relevant here, except to give context to what I *wasn't* doing while a few not-yet-made friends were preparing to go do this.


Please click that link and read that writeup before continuing.  It's important, on many levels.


Could you have envisioned a ride like that 30 years ago?  Had you even heard of a packraft?  Was crossing braided glacial rivers part of your repertoire -- with or without a bike, or boat?!


The answer is a resounding 'no' to all of those questions, for me: I was 18 and still months away from owning my first mountain bike.


But when at last I heard about their trip it hit me hard.  It seemed important somehow: They were setting a bar that I didn't yet even know how to strive toward, I just knew that I wanted to get there.


I'd spend the better part of the next 2 decades learning to travel in the backcountry -- efficiently and safely first, then I'd eventually add in 'somewhat expeditiously'.  Learning to evaluate risk objectively, learning to cough up plan B's and C's -- or even to tuck tail and bail -- when the risk was too great.  Stacking up the lessons of failure hand over fist for years tends to teach you -- if you're paying attention -- all you need to know about being successful.  I can't say exactly when it happened but eventually I transitioned from learning to travel into traveling to learn.  I still occupy that space.  Hope to stay there awhile.


Somewhere in there two more friends repeated the route.  Yes, click that link and read that'n, now, too -- it is equally important, for different reasons.  That was 2009.  It wasn't lost on me that it had taken 21 years for someone to repeat the route with bikes, nor did it slip past that it was Eric and Dylan doing it.  Click went the sound of something ratcheting me that much closer to getting a boat and learning to use it.


I finally got the boat in 2011.  Almost immediately used it on a wild traverse with a good chunk of the aforementioned crew -- Roman, Eric, and Dylan.  Have been learning and refining boat and bike/boat skills pretty continuously ever since.


Still, it took a different idea falling by the wayside a few months ago for Nabesna to McCarthy to finally take center stage.  30 years had elapsed since it had first been done with bikes.  Think about that -- I can't stop thinking about it!  





Steve Fassbinder, Brett Davis, Jon Bailey and myself just completed the route with fatbikes and a single Alpacka Caribou between us.  We rode 70% of the route, walking/pushing/carrying bikes the other 30%.  The boat was never used for forward progress -- only to ferry across rivers too big to wade.  ~Halfway through the trip we got buried under a foot of snow, listened to avalanches ripping down around us, subsequently ran out of food, and throughout experienced all of the subtle and not-so nuances that Alaskan backcountry traverses have to offer.





Over the next few days I'll share some images and anecdotes from one of the hardest Alaskan trips I've yet had the pleasure to be humbled by.





Thanks for checkin' in.

[Adam Alphabet]

Subscribed!
The hell biking and later Dylan and Eric's go on the route are among my all time favourite trip reports. Looking forward to this!

[MikeC]

Normally I'd wait to share the info below until the end of a TR, as it's more nuts-and-bolts type stuff.  In this case the 'why' of what we did as well as took for gear might not be obvious until you read below.  I'll cover the 'what' of gear as I wind things down, later.


Heaving gear and bikes out of Ganey's truck at roads end was the culmination of ~2 months of direct, sometimes intense, and often conflicted preparation.  Most obviously, Ganey graciously allowing us to borrow said truck for more than a week was enormous.  Would you loan your vehicle to out of state friends, knowing they were going to load it heavy, take it to the end of a frequently blown-out road, and then leave it there?  Not only did he, but he threw a few pounds of salmon in to sweeten the deal.  Over the top.



 

We had originally planned to leave the truck at Nabesna, then either hop a bush flight back or maybe hitch to retrieve it.  Russell the Love Muscle solved that one for us by hopping in at Gakona and riding with us to our jump off point, then taking the truck back out.  He took it a giant step further by meeting us in McCarthy when at last we arrived.  Given that our trip stretched a few days longer than we'd planned, Russell's timely arrival was the only thing that made it possible for all of us to catch our scheduled flights home that night.  Way over the top.





Dirty and Grande hosted us in town, treated us as long lost friends (as opposed to needy interloping tourists), and basically let 4 guys junkshow filthy, stinky gear all over their space at a particularly hectic time of year.  I'm still at a loss on what we did to deserve their hospitality and hope that we each get the opportunity to repay it.





The internet age is unbelievable when it comes to planning trips.  Not only could we find trip reports and pictures from those who'd ridden the route before us, but there are many people who've done the route sans bikes and their trip reports were accessible too.  Plus satellite imagery, archival weather data, as well as on-demand beta from regional guides and pilots.  Not to mention just general regional info on a massive landscape.  On top of all that we had the incredible gift of personally knowing and traveling with 3 of the first 5 people to ride this route.  Naturally, we pimped them for info.





Eric and Roman provided incredibly detailed beta, effectively answering any/every question I asked over a period of several weeks.  I mentioned above that our preparation was conflicted, and what I meant is that Roman and Eric rode this route at different times in their lives (Roman was in his late 20's, Eric in his late 30's), using very different eras of equipment, and with fairly different results.  It became our task to determine which of their equipment choices and thus 'methods' made the most sense for our trip.





On bikes they disagreed: Roman urged us toward small wheels and tires and suspended bikes, arguing that the suspension was needed because of the proliferation of river cobbles.  Eric made an eloquent argument that a modern, light fatbike was the best tool for the job as many of the gravel bars and stream courses we'd spend time on were soft and required float, and because big, squishy, low pressure fat tires were their own form of suspension.  The effectiveness of that crude suspension is inarguable, and it also means you don't need the weight or complexity of real suspension.  On a normal at-home trail ride you'd never, ever hear me arguing the merits of a rigid fatbike over something with full suspension and sub 3" tires.  But knowing that our bikes were about to be repeatedly submerged in suspended glacial silt, ridden through bogs, fens, and muck, dragged and thrown through alder, willow, and devil's club, I couldn't reach for a light, simple fatbike fast enough.  I wasn't privy to their thought processes, but Jon, BD, and Doom concluded similarly.





The pioneers both agreed that good brakes and ample gears were mandatory to maximize riding opportunities.  We agreed wholeheartedly.


On boats, Roman encouraged us -- in his heavy-handed way -- to take only one for the 4 of us.  Doing so would, in his opinion, keep more weight off of our bikes and backs, and in so doing allow us to ride substantially more of the route.  He admonished us not to even consider taking a boat per person, quipping that we would then be "on a hike-a-bike packrafting trip where you'll wonder why you brought the bike".





Never having been out there, and knowing that Roman had not merely ridden it the one time but had raced it in the AMWC a handful more, it was hard to look at this as much less than gospel.





On the one vs. many boats question Eric's beta couldn't have been clearer: "If you get to the Chitistone and only have one boat you're gonna feel really, really stupid because that's clearly the best mode of travel from that point.  With only one boat you'll be crossing (fording) the river a lot and it is pure ice water, the glaciers are right there."





The group batted it around for half an hour on a conference call the morning before flying north: 4 boats or one?  There were very good reasons to want to float the Nabesna, Chitistone, and Nizina.  But, we wondered, how much faster would that actually be, once you factored in all the added riding we'd do instead of pushing with heavy packs to get to those points?  And then we wondered, is moving faster even important?


In the end we all agreed that speed didn't really factor into the equation.  We wanted an adventure, we wanted to ride our bikes a bunch, and we wanted to do it in a new-to-us, big, wild place.





Thus, we took only one boat.


Since we only had the one we didn't, couldn't make any downriver progress -- just used them to ferry across stuff we couldn't wade or (usually inadvertently) swim.





It didn't always work exactly this way, but the typical pattern was for me to ferry Doom (and both of our packs) across first, then he'd go back to get 2 bikes and bring those over. Then I'd go back for 2 more bikes. Then one of us would go get Brett, then Brett would go back and get Jon. Each one of these crossings took ~an hour from dropping our packs to cinching them back on and riding off.





Simply put, any distance covered was either by walking or by riding. And we rode a lot more miles than we walked.





Now that that preamble is outta the way, when next I post it'll be to share some of the actual trip!


Thanks for checkin' in.

[Adam Alphabet]

 

[fotooutdoors]

Dang... That last photo doesn't look like riding! Good stuff as always. Thanks for sharing!

[MikeC]

After the long drive up from town it was 8:30PM when at last we were ready to move.  When finally we'd finished packing our bikes, when the last pre-trip poseur pics were snapped, when we'd each done a lap around and inside the truck to ensure we weren't forgetting anything, when there was positively nothing left to do but start pedaling, only then did I realize that we didn't know where we were going.


I'd gotten specific beta from Roman on micro-level routefinding in the vicinity of the White River, Lime Creek, Russell Glacier, Goat Trail, even getting down to the Chitistone -- all of which were many days away from where we currently stood.  It never occurred to me to ask how to start the trip, and in that moment of realization I quickly understood why: Most people begin by immediately heading to nearby Jack Creek, inflating their boats, then floating out into the Nabesna and down to Cooper Creek.





That had been the original, obvious plan, but with only one boat between us that plan was DOA.


Shee-it.


A glance at the maps showed 2 different possible ATV tracks heading away from Nabesna, both going roughly 90* to our preferred direction of travel.  Sub-optimal either way.  But since we weren't willing to just head off-trail into thick swamp to bushwhack right off the bat, we had to make a choice and somehow opted to head south toward the Jacksina.  Riding was decent on a grassy doubletrack but we quickly sensed that this track was gradually turning away from the direction we needed to go.  A downed plane appeared trailside and we nerded out on it for a few moments before resuming.











The trail got softer, wetter, swampier, and very quickly it became difficult to maintain forward momentum.  My three compadres are all lighter, fitter, stronger -- not to mention younger -- than I, and slowly they started to pull away.  Occasionally we'd cross a bog or knee-deep water would force us off the bikes, and if I double-timed my pace through these sections -- and kept the camera holstered -- I could usually catch back up.  In so doing I was still working harder than the others, and quickly soaked myself in sweat.  With no clouds on the horizon and the midnight sun circling above there was little reason to fear being wet through as "night" approached, yet still it felt like bad form to be working so hard so early in a multi-day endeavor.  I knew that the boys were probably unconsciously exorcising their caged-for-days demons after all the travel to get here, and figured the pace would mellow out soon enough.





Before the pace had a chance to change the trail vanished underwater and we were faced with the first of many routefinding decisions.  After hiking to a higher perch we could see that ~10 minutes of wading through slack water of indeterminate depth would bring us out to the Jacksina River plain, and once there we'd have to cross and re-cross the Jacksina as it wound it's way back and forth across gravel bars and between the walls it had incised through millennia.  Brett even waded out aways while the resident beaver repeatedly slapped in protest at the trespass, as the rest of us wrung our hands while fruitlessly scrutinizing maps that hadn't been updated in decades.


Shee-it.





Because the Jacksina route would take us yet further off our intended course toward the Nabesna, we tucked tails and began schwacking over a low ridge in the direction of the Jack/Nabesna confluence.  As we toiled our way up this ridge, stumbling shin-deep through watery tussocks while pushing aside alders and being attacked by mosquitoes, I experienced the first pings of regret at only bringing the one boat.  Had we opted for 4 we'd probably already have floated out into the Nabesna, we (well, I) wouldn't be soaked in sweat, and we certainly wouldn't be inhaling bugs by the hundreds.








In hindsight the schwack wasn't that bad.  Good to get the first one over with at any rate. 





Sometime after midnight we arrived at a small, clear section of forest with dead, dry wood, and a space big enough to set up a tent without needing to swim into it.  We'd only been on the move a little more than 4 hours but the days of travel leading up to it had us all a bit knackered even before starting.  That, and despite the long twilight our internal clocks all insisted that it was after 2AM at home, thus time to chill the eff out and get some sleep.


We erected the tent, kindled fire, then cooked and savored Ganey's salmon before passing out for 40ish winks.  It wasn't lost on me as I tucked into my bag that the dimmest part of the 'night' had already passed and the sky was brightening by the minute.  I pulled both hat and hood lower over my eyes and passed out.

[MikeC]

A measly few hours later direct sun on my bag broasted me awake long before I was ready to be.  I'd slept out near the fire so as not to keep the others awake with my snoring, and was delighted but not surprised to see that no dew had wet my bag in the 'night'.  I packed my bivy away quietly, rekindled the fire so the others could have hot coffee without needing to use the stove, then circled the camp with camera in hand as a means for better understanding my new environment.





The deciduous grove within which we'd slept had such a thick carpet of leaves that almost nothing could penetrate it from beneath.  Broadening my circle to the perimeter brought me into more moist soils and there thrived a riot of wildflowers.  I recognized lupine and skyrockets, bluebell and aven, paintbrush and forget-me-nots, as well as the ever-present fleabane and geranium.  Maybe a marigold of some sort and for sure some sort of pea -- the kind that killed McCandless?  How could I not have internalized every detail of that one?!





Eventually the others woke and we set about eating and packing to move.





A quick schwack across an ankle-deep bog and over a short rise brought us out to...





...a freaking ATV trail.  It wasn't heavily used but the presence of homesteads could only mean that, had we the first effing clue about this area, we could have ridden here easily in a short time last night.  





We guessed at every spur using our internal compass of where the Nabesna lay, and quickly popped out of the trees, across a meadow, and out onto the gravel bars of the big river.








Above, JB rides the first braid with a lobe of the glacier just visible in the background, while below Doom and Brett wade the too-deep-to-pedal second braid.





After 6 or 7 braids we arrived at the main channel and could see at a glance that it was far too deep and swift to wade, so out came the boat.  





The benefit to traveling with a savvy crew is that everyone always had busy hands -- even while I was paddling Doom across on the first lap, Jon and Brett were prepping the bikes to be loaded when the boat returned.  While Doom headed back for bikes I walked to the next braid and scouted the best place for us to cross it, then headed back to catch Doom and his expensive cargo.  As he headed back for the second round of bikes I reassembled the first two, and in such manner it took us under an hour to get 4 bodies, 4 bikes, and 4 packs across the main channel.








It was already obvious that our choice of single boat was not going to be faster or more efficient in any way.  It was yet more obvious that we were in a stunning, wild place that was new to all of us, and dwelling on spilt milk wasn't going to change a thing.  Although Roman had indeed leaned hard on us to take only one boat, we're all adults and we knew on some level what we were choosing in so doing.  Although all of us would voice regret at least a few times about making this decision, I resolved to stop grumbling about it and to start enjoying the place we were in.  Pretty easy to do when the weather is good and it's this easy on the eyes.

















We kept the boat inflated until it became obvious that we could wade the next few channels and pretty quickly we found ourselves on the south side of the Nabesna.  Numb feet were as prevalent as the stoke we all shared at crossing the first major hurdle of the route.





We packed away boat, paddle, and PFD's and went in search of trail.  Riverside cobbles were rideable but rough, thus moving away from them and out to where sediments had been deposited gave us smoother tread -- but also more veg.  No free lunch.  We fanned out over a ~1/4 mile wide swath, each searching for and finding our own personal path of least resistance.








There were bits of swamp to negotiate, micro creeks to cross, and no shortage of ever evolving alpine scenery at which to gawk.








Eventually the river swung south and pinched us between a bluff and heavy current, forcing us to shoulder bikes and head up into the forest.  For the next ~90 minutes we didn't ride much through thick, swampy veg.


And then we wrapped around a knoll, stumbled through this squirrel midden, and could feel the influence of Cooper Creek in both cool air and more open lines through the veg.  





While framing the above shot it occurred to me that our slower-than-expected pace meant we probably didn't have enough food for the trip.  We'd planned for 6 days out but that now seemed hopelessly optimistic.  Next time we regrouped I broached the subject of starting to ration our calories out to at least 8 days, and everyone quickly agreed to it.





Crossing the first of many braids of the Cooper.  75+ degree temps and a creek fed by snowmelt meant that this "little" creek was raging, and it fanned out through the forest for most of a mile.





We managed to string together short rideable sections of cobbles as we ascended the reasonable gradient of the creekbed.





Where walls closed in and the braids came together we were forced to cross and recross the creek, often in suboptimal places with watermelon sized cobbles moving underfoot in thigh-deep current.


We all stumbled occasionally but I think I was the only one that lost his feet entirely to this point.  The day had been hot, and although 15 minutes later being wet through was fine, when I first went neck deep and had to struggle to regain my feet while fighting to maintain control of the bike it didn't feel like such a lark.


Eventually we arrived at a constriction too fast and deep to wade, and out came the boat again.  So deep and fast was it, with no obvious eddy on the far side, that we concluded that two people on the first lap was probably not a great idea.  I probed it and basically ended up rolling out of the boat and onto the far shore because there was no place to stop and because the rolling cobbles precluded the simple act of just standing up.  My exit was ugly but effective -- story of my life -- and the others could clearly see it as such.  Fortunately we'd brought some 8mm p-cord, and found a use for it here in penduluming the boat back and forth with packs and bikes.  Once cargo was across I again pendulumed the boat back over with paddle and PFD and everyone got their chance to paddle through the firehose and attempt to better my ugly exit.





We rode and pushed a bit further, all cognizant that it was getting late and we'd need to find a camp spot soon.  Nothing obvious presented itself so we just kept moving.  Soon we came to another sketchy crossing -- too deep, fast, and steep for an easy wade.  Yet we were all tired -- it was after 11PM already -- and none of us really relished another hour+ of diddling with the single boat to get across, when we might have to do it again (and again?) just around the next corner.  Doom found a spot to wade that looked sketchy to me -- it was fine, maybe just over the knees to within 10' of the far bank -- but then obviously deepened against the bank.  Who knew how deep.  He's light on his feet and overall a gifted athlete, and although he stumbled mightily and was wet to the chest he managed to emerge out the other side upright.  He gave us a relieved thumbs up as the roar of the water precluded any sort of verbal contact.


I went next, entering a bit lower and angling downstream as I moved.  The current was powerful, the cobbles shifted and moved even without my feet touching them, and I stumbled and caught myself repeatedly as the current pushed me downstream.  At some point it became obvious that my trajectory wasn't my own -- the river was in control now.  My feet quickly went numb and as they did my movements became yet sloppier.  In a micro-second of trying to slow my harried movements I allowed my front wheel to drop by an inch and the current wasted no time in pulling it away from me.  I lost my balance, lost my feet, and bounded twice, thrice while trying to regain control of the bike.  I have no clear idea how I didn't end up swimming.  My guess is that adrenaline took over and powered me across the rest of the way without much thought.  Damn.  Damn.


Jon came next.  Having seen both Doom and I struggle and stumble his body language was pure apprehension.  Had I watched what he just did I wouldn't want anything to do with this crossing either.  He gamely tiptoed out into the current and then, shin-deep, he made a fateful decision.  No doubt seeing my bike get pulled nearly from my grip influenced his choice to put his bike up and over his head, resting the weight of it on his shoulders far from where the water can grab it.  Roman espouses this technique and although I've seen him use it on less precarious crossings I'm not sure it was the best idea here.  Both Doom and I frantically screamed and motioned for Jon to NOT come further in this manner, but the roar of the river and his laser focus on it meant that Jon never heard nor saw us.  He stumbled once then caught himself.  Stumbled again, then again, and on the fourth slip lost his feet and the weight of the bike pushed him completely underwater.  Things happened fast as he got trundled downstream with us so near and yet so unable to help.  His head popped up, he got a breath, then the current pushed both Jon and the bike back down again.


Through sheer force of will (aided by endorphins no doubt) Jon managed to stand -- I think he'd released the bike at this point -- and catch himself.  As both Doom and I had he then charged toward shore but again the current swept his feet and we could see him getting dragged and banged along the bottom by the heedless torrent.  When finally he emerged breathless onto the bank, Jon was scared, shivering, and limping.  He pulled on a rain shell to ward off the evening chill while Brett gingerly and uneventfully made his way over.  





We got moving again within moments, largely to help Jon rebuild some core heat.  Within 10 minutes we'd rooted out something good enough to call camp for the night -- flat enough and with abundant dry wood -- and by the time fire was kindled Jon had changed into his dry sleep kit and the shivers had stopped.  Good thing, because he needed steady hands to apply ointment to all of his fresh bumps and scrapes.





Dinner was a fairly quiet affair as we watched a nearby peak turn pink in the alpenglow, and we all drifted off with the sound of the seemingly pissed off creek reverberating in our subconscious.





All that and we were just past 24 hours into the trip.


Thanks for checkin' in.

[Yagi]

Fantastic!  Love the words and photos, MC.

[MikeC]

I woke to a dank layer of clouds and instinctively smiled out my gratefulness: Most of the previous day had been bright, bright sun, and toward the end I'd begun to feel a little crispy.  Having lived in the desert for the last few decades I simply can't take cloud cover for granted.


We ate and packed up camp in slow motion, not inefficiently so much (I guessed) as because no one was in a hurry to cross and recross the firehose that was Cooper Creek.  The first few braids were easy enough to wade, but pretty quickly we got pinched between a wall and a fast, deep channel.  Doom did what Doom does and made his way across disaster style.  I did what I typically do and made it across the same spot in a decidedly less aesthetically pleasing manner.  The crossing was deep and cold, the fast current tumbling basketball and watermelon-sized cobbles along the bottom such that you had to keep feet moving -- shuffling along regardless -- or you'd catch a few on the toes and shins.  Brett is a picture of deliberate concentration when crossing these creeks, but on this one even his poker face wrenched into a wince more than once as cobbles banged off of bone.





With the drama of last night's close-call still fresh in Jon's head, and perhaps with the not-yet-scabbed scrapes on his legs tingling out warnings, he watched all of us struggle, stumble, and slip (but not fall) on this crossing and then, when it was his turn, he paced up and down the bank looking for the spot that spoke to him.  And then he paced some more, edged in ankle deep, started and stopped, then eventually took a step back -- up onto the bank.  The roar of subsurface trundling cobbles was intense, but by really shouting he was able to communicate:


"I don't like it!  I want the boat!"


We could all relate to the first statement but it was the last 4 words that set off a flurry of motion on our side of the creek.  Doom unfurled and inflated the boat while I snapped together the paddle and inflated the PFD as Brett hucked the throwbag across to Jon.  





I was so, so happy that Jon could sidestep any ego or peer pressure nonsense and just tell it like he felt it.  It'll sound funny to verbalize but I was proud of him for that.





In ~20 minutes we had Jon on our side, everything packed up, and continued working our way upstream.  





We saw no critters other than birds but there was constant sign of moose, bear, wolf, caribou and -- once over Cooper Pass -- there were tracks from wild horses everywhere.








So resigned had we become to the game of roulette we were playing that we almost missed a turn.  





Cooper Creek actually had it's origin in a clear, tame stream, and once we left the raging brown torrent behind we were able to relax several notches.  Concurrent with the split up Cooper proper we were suddenly riding very little.  Some combination of thick brush, huge cobbles, slippery creek bottom or steep gradient was always present such that we spent the next few hours walking next to our bikes. 








Except for Brett, whom decided to commit to strapping bike onto pack.  This gave him the benefit of not having to find smooth places to roll his wheels, at a cost of constantly whacking his handlebars into his left calf.  Brett isn't one to be bothered by such minutiae, and even with said hitch in his giddyup he eventually passed me and began pulling ahead.





I need a crutch to lean on when traversing difficult terrain, and the upper reaches of this creek certainly qualified as such.  I'd roll the bike forward, spot my next footing, lock brakes to steady the bike, reach out with one foot, plant it, then the next, plant it, then heave the bike forward, lock brakes, and repeat.  For one particularly steep and rough ~1/4 mile stretch I actually stuck my head through the main triangle, deftly balancing the bike on my shoulders, and moved up and through that way.  It was nice to not have to plot the path forward for both bike and body, but my ankles are so fooked that I was ultimately slower without the bike to lean on.  As soon as the terrain leveled enough to roll the bike again I reverted to that method. 





The boys snacked while waiting for me in a light drizzle at (not) Blue Lake.








We gawked at the scenery for a bit before a breeze got those skinny boys shivering, then up over a tiny bump we schlepped to the actual Blue Lake.  Riding recommenced here -- in fits and starts at first but then for 1/4 and half mile stretches as we ascended.

















Any and all trail in this environment is a pleasant surprise.  Some of it was downright exceptional.

















The silence of this natural amphitheater was appreciated by all, and not just because it lacked a roaring creek.  We heard but had difficulty spotting nesting shorebirds as we traversed above them, then Bailey sighted and the rest of us ogled mountain goats working their way above and away from us.











As we neared the pass the cobbles imperceptibly morphed into pebbles as the creek became but a trickle.





Then snowfields appeared and forced us out of the creekbed entirely, only to find...


...wait for it...





...interconnected ribbons -- miles of them -- of actual alpine singletrack.   Buff, skinny, impossibly smooth singletrack.  





My wife is a collector of bird feathers and I was pretty sure she didn't have any of the goat variety in her stash.





After a false summit the track got yet better and in between ripping along on effortless trail we stopped to laugh, slap high fives and exclaim how great the riding and views were.  The sun even reappeared to brighten the mood yet further.





It might have been right here or maybe a little later, but as I caught up to Doom I could hear him softly whispering -- almost subconsciously, to himself -- "This is why we do it...".





I carry a Delorme InReach for emergencies and to stay in touch with Jeny.  So smitten was I with the place, the incredible riding, the overall vibe, that I powered it up and ripped out a text to her that read simply "Oh hell yes!". Then for good measure I sent it to the rest of my contacts in the device.  Not being privy to where we were nor what we were experiencing, this text served largely to confuse all whom received it.  But I wouldn't know that for another week...





For the next ~half hour we descended what felt like one of the better alpine trails I've yet ridden.  A thought formed in my head -- and grew as we descended -- that this trail was good enough to rival or even best any similar length section of the the Colorado Trail.  I didn't (couldn't!) dwell on it as we chased each other hopping, carving, and manualing our way down to Notch Creek, but still it kept bubbling up to the surface.  It really seemed that good.





It actually seemed better in that I wasn't suffering due to altitude as I would be on the CT.








Exotic views did nothing to dampen the mood.








Eventually the trail disgorged back onto creek bottom and instead of flowing along on world class singletrack we had to re-engage with reading the terrain.  You could just 'check out' and bash along the cobbles all day, but a bit of attention allowed you to connect the smooth bits and create your own flow state.  Focusing on this process was super satisfying.





Something like 15 hours after leaving our gray camp on the lower Cooper, as the creamy light started to fade into shadow, we finally managed to rein ourselves in and start looking for a campsite.  








As we collected wood and set up camp yet more high fives were exchanged and laughter was shared. Giggling, I rhetorically asked Jon if he'd care to rate the quality of the riding on a 1 to 11 scale and he hesitated not a moment before confidently proclaiming "Eleven Plus".


I've been riding bikes on dirt for almost 40 years.  I've lived in 3 different "mountain bike mecca's" (Crested Butte, Whistler, Grand Junction) over the past few decades and I currently have same-day access to several (Moab, Durango, St. George) others.  So to say, I've ridden a lot of good trail and I don't get excited over nothing.  The combination of super high quality animal trail, breathtaking alpine scenery, and a capable, tight knit crew elevated this day into one of my top five -- maybe even top three -- riding experiences.  Ever.


None of us would have believed you had you told us that it could, and would, get yet better.


Thanks for checkin' in.

[Demian]

So utterly delicious. Thank you.

[MikeC]

Morning dawned bright, early, and quickly got hot.  I don't often associate a need for shade with any of my Alaska trips, but I was conscious of where the sun was and kept my back to it while breakfasting, mending gear, and packing up this morning.





A few miles of engaging gravel grinding brought us to Cross Creek, which featured heavy downstream winds whipping dust all about us, some remnant sheets of aufeis, and on the far side some curious markings that led us to an ATV trail.





As soft, soupy, boggy as this trail was it seemed more likely that it was a sledneck route.  You could certainly get through on an ATV but with snow filling in the holes and everything frozen it'd feel like a superhighway.  Reminded me a lot of the trail north of Rohn on the Iditarod.





The not-quite-earth we rode atop and within required so much energy output that I pretty quickly determined it wasn't worth it.  The downs were marginally acceptable but anything uphill or even level was just maxing me out to creep and slosh along at ~1.5mph, so I hopped off and walked next to the bike, with fairly low output, at 2mph.





Much easier to spectate the local scenery when walking, too.





This section was short-lived -- maybe 20 minutes? -- and then we popped out at the edge of the Chisana.  A cold, cold breeze blew downstream at us and likely influenced our decision to not just wade willy nilly across the first wide but slack channel we saw.  Instead we rode and pushed bear trail upstream aways.








The pervasive cold wind became more of a factor as we popped out of the woods and the shelves of ice increased.  The "heat" of the morning's camp was long forgotten as we ascended into the remnants of winter.








After 30 minutes or so of paralleling the river we arrived at what we all thought of as the least worst crossing we could find.  The water was colder than the air, but only just, and Doom and I were damn chilled after ferrying all the loads across the main channel.





We kept the boat inflated across this big shelf while secretly hoping the next channel would be wadeable.





There was one big channel and several smaller ones left to cross.  I volunteered to probe the big'n, angling downstream toward a point on the far shore.  Maybe 150 yards across in total, wading this one meant fully numb feet way before the halfway point.  I was within 30 yards of the far bank when I let my guard down -- took one big step instead of another small shuffle -- and that happened to be right where the bottom dropped out.  Without warning I was swimming.  I'd had the presence of mind to keep the bike downstream of me and with its big buoyant tires it floated unassisted.  I kicked and stroked a time or three while being pushed by the current, then felt the bottom coming back up and hauled myself out.  I was soaked to the neck but at least I was across.  I motioned to the others to try a higher line then wrung out my clothes while doing jumping jacks.





They all succeeded in crossing without swimming, but their chosen lines also put all of them at least chest deep at some point.  You simply can't be sure of what you're reading when the water is this opaque.  Doom -- oddly -- struggled the most when he found some bottomless silt that sucked him in over the knees.  Glacial rivers are awesomely, unpredictably weird like that.





30 minutes later we broiled in the sun next to one of many landing strips in the community of Chisana.





This place saw a gold rush in 1913 and then withered away within a decade.  Refurbished summer-use cabins and trails from the miners still exist.  We rode along a second runway on our way through "town", then took a brief break in the shade of a small cabin for lunch.











Maybe 100' away from where we sat a small plane was parked.  After ~20 minutes of sitting there eating and talking Doom noticed that there were feet dangling out the door.  Swinging in the breeze.  I thought it odd that someone would sit so close and not at least throw up a wave of greeting.  But then not everyone that lives in the bush cares to be social.  As we packed to resume riding the feet clomped down to the ground and carried their owner over to ask about our route.  He looked our bikes over in detail, asked how we'd crossed the Nabesna and Chisana, then after I answered he said "Those Alpacka's are awesome little boats".  With that he turned on his heels and jogged toward his aircraft.  


I yelled after him, "But wait -- you didn't tell us anything about you!  What are you doing out here!?"


Without breaking stride he chuckled over his shoulder, "There's a *phone system* out here and it needed repairing!"


90 seconds later he was a quickly disappearing drone to the north.





We wove our way through the rest of Chisana on ATV trail.  A lone lynx glided silently across ahead of us then disappeared between two cabins.





Eventually the trail blended into the gravel bars of Geohenda Creek and we got back into the headspace of finding the cleanest line as we ascended this drainage.








Creative route finding was the rule here: Often we'd wade upstream, plowing into the current as the water piled over our waists, reaching a hand out to steady ourselves on cut banks or rock walls, as doing so meant we could stay on one side of the river (no need to cross then recross) for another mile or more.





In the middle reaches of Geohenda we emerged from behind a bluff to find the scenery changing in a hurry.  Icefield capped peaks drew us ever upward on what turned out to be some of the most engaging riding of the trip.  With all senses firing you could ride complicated and dynamic lines across the cobbles while observing animal tracks, pondering ski lines, and recognizing that the immediate terrain was about to change and it might be time to move laterally to keep the riding flowing.








One of the tidbits that Roman shared with us before leaving was simply: "If it sucks, do something else".


We'd come to understand this to mean that there was almost always decent if not good riding available.  Putting your head down and plowing forward heedless was a good way to miss it -- you had to stay engaged.  I was never not amazed that *just* as the cobbles got unmanageable or the creek pinched us between its raging self and a wall, poking your nose up onto a bench would reveal a quality, rideable piece of trail.  The local animals travel (you could even say "maintain") these trails year-round and so it shouldn't have been a surprise that there was always a better route when things got unruly.  These trails ranged from faint depressions in the grass to full-blown and heavily used u-shaped singletrack.








As with on Cooper Creek it was relieving to arrive at the upper reaches where most tributaries were below us and the creek was but a trickle.  When necessary we could simply ride across it instead of slugging it out with bikes on shoulders.





Below, note trail ascending the hillside beyond the snow bridge.  This is where *it* started.  We didn't know it yet, but this is where our minds began to be blown.





Between that snow bridge and the Solo Mountain Cabin lay some of the sweetest alpine skinny I've ever had the pleasure to roll tires across.  Lined with flowers, mellowly graded, buff without feeling man-made, we rode for miles, for hours, gliding along with very little output even though we were still ascending.








We crossed several false summits on our ascent, each serving to frame the unfolding scenery in such a way as to say "Savor *this* moment, dammit!"





Boy did we.





Note two riders, below, climbing away from a creek crossing and back onto the good stuff.





My thought from the previous day -- about these trails being at least as good as any section of the Colorado Trail -- came rushing back to me here.  And the simple truth is that I'd take this trail -- even with all of its attendant hazards and difficulties -- 9 times out of 10 over the CT.  This was so much sweeter in it's wild remoteness, it's vast emptiness, it's mandate that you engage with the place while working to earn the sweet rewards.  


And the tenth of those ten times?  I'd flip a coin.





Almost as if in response to my musings the trail vanished -- reminding me of exactly where I was -- and we found ourselves hopscotching across tussocks for the last ~mile to the cabin.





The lack of trail here seemed like a gift, too, in that it allowed us to spot this fox and watch her work the ground for prey.  That search culminated in a cock-eared pause, an arch of her back, and then an acrobatic pounce from which she emerged with something wriggling in her mouth and then subsequently disappeared behind a knoll.  A magic moment, then -- poof -- gone.





The last creamy light faded as we rolled up to the cabin, spent but glowing, and settled in for the night.





Thanks for checkin' in.

[fotooutdoors]

"thanks for checkin' in"

Thanks for sharing, since the photos and the trip are both stunning. Though it does make my (and most people's) bikepacking adventures seen dull and tame...

[MikeC]

I woke up worn down.  Long, hard days of travel chasing young bucks whom don't seem to need breaks will do that to you.  Or at least me.  Hearing rain drum down on the cabin roof most of the night probably had at least a little to do with it.  I rolled over and pulled my hat down over my eyes 6 or 7 times before finally accepting that I was awake for good.  I creakily exited the bag, put water on to boil, then shuffled out into the dank morning air to relieve myself.





The previous evening's honey light and stunning views were gone, obscured by a ground-level cloud that looked permanently parked.  I wondered if we would have enjoyed the fine riding last night nearly as much without those views and that light.  Unlikely.





We dawdled away a few hours inside the cabin, reading the logbooks and wall carvings, repairing gear, cooking and eating breakfast, adding our own mark to the register.














With no chores left to do and a lot of miles to be covered, we tie the door closed and head toward the White River.  Everything is sodden, and probably because we've been burning it at both ends for days, everything feels uphill.  Especially the uphills.





The travel isn't particularly hard unless you compare to how easy it was the last 2 days.  We walk next to our bikes through tussock fields, occasionally rolling them ahead of us on back wheels as we punch through patches of alder.  When the alder arrive at a certain combined height and thickness we hoist bikes overhead and stumble through that way, but those moments are rare.  The morning passes slowly and we are all wet through from the alder 'car washes' more than the light drizzle.





We cross a steep cobble-filled gully and follow it down, down, down -- riding when possible and walking when the gradient goes richter.  Doom is navigating and says that despite the wall of vegetation we must punch through to leave the gully, that a rumored trail we've been looking for is (according to the GPS) 'right up there'.


We stumble and grunt our way up and, one by one, express delight as we pop out of the veg and onto a bonafide ATV trail.  For the next ~15 minutes we become a riotous conga line: Four elated humans shucking, jiving, and belly laughing our way down a fast, fun, duff and root strewn trail through the woods.  





The trail opens into a wildflower strewn meadow, from whence we splash across a rivulet and arrive at a small collection of cabins: Solo Creek.





We lean bikes against a split-rail fence, drape raingear over the same, then dive into lunch.  No one is going hungry but the limited fare and hard travel mean we've all constantly got an appetite.  The buzz of a small plane appears overhead, circles, lands out of sight but very close by, then taxis up into the cabins and parks not 100 yards away.  Team diplomat Davis wanders over and strikes up a conversation with Tom (same Tom from "fire" sign at cabin, above?), and eventually we all join him. Tom gives a brief tour of his own cabin, shows us the one he's building for friends, clues us in to the local pack of wild horses (he was up in his plane checking on them when we arrived), offloads Oreos and trail mix onto hungry-ass Bailey, then turns the questions on us about our trip and especially our bikes.  He takes mine for a brief spin and immediately finds the upshift lever and dropper remote, but can't figure out the downshift.  He returns from his brief, inaugural fatbike ride smiling -- the way people do.  He tells us about his original Mountain Klein -- still in service since the early '90's -- but quickly makes clear that a fatbike is in his very near future.  Says he'll use it instead of the airplane to go check on the horses.





Tom gives us beta on how to exit the cabin complex -- usually one of the more confusing navigational tasks on any Alaskan adventure -- and sends us on our way.  We ride quickly along gravel bars and sediment benches along the White River until arriving at Lime Creek.  The first 4 braids are tricky but doable, and each of us make it safely across even though our lines diverge wildly.  The biggest braid sees all of us stumbling but only manages to trip poor Bailey -- whom again gets trundled and banged up in the ensuing tangle with his bike.





Nothing seems as real or as scary as being tossed about by a pissed off river.  Bailey seems a bit rattled (whom wouldn't be?) but quickly shakes it off and leads us on toward the glacier.





The terrain gradually changes from gravel bars to gravel benches, and we can feel the land rising almost as fast as the air cools on our ascent toward the snout of the Russell.








Pre-trip, Eric had made clear that once we hit the snout of the glacier there would be no more riding -- maybe for days -- which makes us all the more grateful as the riding continues much further than expected.





An occasional debris fan impedes our flow, causing us to cast about before finding yet more good riding never far away.





Doom suggests calling it an early day so that we can camp at the last of the wood.  Being able to dry out gear and cook over flame sounds appealing to all and we turn our collective attention to sussing out a spot.








A spot with a view and some protection from down-glacier breezes presents itself and we all busy ourselves collecting wood.  Fire is kindled, sodden clothes removed, tents erected.  We have time to eat and share the first of our bad jokes before fresh rain moves in and chases us into the tents.  

[MikeC]

Mercifully the rain abates long enough to pack up in the morning, and again we are surprised to be riding at all, much less over relatively smooth terrain with exceptional views.

















At Flood Creek the wheels come off.  Figuratively at least.  The crossing is sketchy -- steep gradient, ample flow to sweep our feet -- both amplified in our subconscious by the thundering of cobbles being rolled along in the current.  





Doom and I work our way upstream identifying potential crossings as Brett and Jon head downstream doing the same.  A cold wind chills us as we do, making every possibility seem less likely.  Wind aside none of them look good.





Jon and Brett return with good news: moving lower looks better.  We cross -- gratefully -- with little drama, and then stare upward at a mountain of moraine.  Silt, mud, pebbles, cobbles, boulders -- just an amalgamated mess -- all pushed up against a hillside with no easy or even obvious path through.  Pedals come off, bike bags are unloaded or outright removed and stashed in backpacks, then up we move.  Slowly.





Again Brett opts for the hands-free approach.








We can see ice everywhere but it takes an hour of sidehilling for it to manifest itself in an obvious way beneath our feet.  In trying to descend into a gully Doom kicks off a mudslide and we watch its' slow motion steamroll in detached fascination until the earth beneath all of our feet begins to move.  Then we're not so detached.  A veritable quagmire engulfs each of us at various points -- wet concrete moving so slowly that you wouldn't think to be alarmed by it, until you realize it's underlain by slabs of ice upon which there is no possibility of traction.  We each struggle and stumble in the most undignified ways while traversing each successive hidden-til-you're-in-it iteration.  I don't have a good image of these but there's a brief clip in the video (soon!) that gives an inkling.





At one incongruous moment I stop to remove gravel from my shoes and while doing so notice a bumblebee pollinating flowers, immediately beyond which the entire universe seems to exist only as snow, ice, or gravels.  Anthropomorphic rationalization can give "life" to the moving glacier and all that it lays waste to in its gravity-fed slow-motion excavation.  But that's not the same as flowers and bees and it feels alien, and welcome, to be sitting in (on) this minuscule island of life surrounded by so much that just isn't.





While attending to my shoes I note that Eddie Van Halen has left his mark on my rear wheel.  Thanks Ed!





As I'm framing the above shot of Brett I notice a wall of rain moving up-valley at us.  I drop pack and don rain shell, and before Brett has caught me a cold wind-driven rain has enveloped both of us.  For the next several hours the rain is a constant companion as we continue schlepping upward, now sliding on greased rock with perpetually muddy feet.  Except when we wade through icy creeks or posthole through rotten snow.





Doom positively kills the navigation, leading us over and through myriad snowfields with no obvious landmarks by which to reckon.  As the day winds on my sodden shoes begin going to pieces, and I have to continually stop to clean out gravel and to apply patches in hopes of keeping said gravel out.





These too-frequent stops have me chilled to the core and regretting my sunny-day decision (back at the start) to forgo any sort of gloves.  I move as efficiently as I can and take extra care with each step, but still I have to stop all too frequently and the boys get further and further ahead.  I know they're waiting when they can but as skinny as they all are I also know they're likely colder than I and as such must maintain motion to produce heat.  There's nothing to be done but to keep moving as efficiently as possible and hope they don't start eating each other.


As the day winds down into dank foggy dusk we are nowhere near anyplace level or earthen enough to camp, and so we keep on pushing.  I'm soaked and shivering and sorely tempted to add my last dry layer, but know that I'll be much happier if I save it to wear inside my bag overnight.





Many cold hours later we descend into the headwaters of the Chitistone.  Edging along a high bench I spot the boys a few hundred feet below, right next to the river.  They aren't moving and it takes a moment to realize that they've decided on a camp spot.  I work my way down the sketchy slippery slope and as I near I can see that they are all quite literally shivering.  They've got tents laid out but they need the paddle and pole to erect them -- both of which are in my pack.  Wordlessly I drop pack and remove these essential items so that we can finish the job and get inside.


The next hour is the longest: shedding sodden clothes, wriggling into sleep kit and bags, heating water for dinner.  The shivers recede slowly, unwilling to immediately release their grasp, aided in this endeavor by the psychosomatic pounding of rain on tents, the piles of sodden clothes we'll need to put back on in the morning.  Bailey sums it all up in a single dispassionate utterance: "Grim".  


Deep in the night I break consciousness to pee.  Our floorless tents make this task easy if a bit gross.  Say what you will but I'm not getting out of the bag or the tent if I don't have to, when there is bare ground right there.  I note approvingly that the rain has stopped and pass back out.  Some time later -- minutes, hours? -- I'm awakened by something very cold pressing on my face.  I rouse and flail and when real consciousness finds me realize that it's the tent wall, being pressed down by inches of wet, heavy snow.  I pound the walls to dislodge it, then shout to wake the others so that they can do the same.  The rest of the night passes in a series of too-brief naps punctuated by cleaning the tent walls to keep them from collapsing onto us.





During one of these naps I'm startled awake by a sharp report, which turns out to be the cracking of the paddle blade.  Our *only* paddle.  So much snow had accumulated on the other tent -- while those slackers slept through it -- that it could no longer support the weight.  Then another noise, a deep rumble, reaches us from across the valley.  Then one from our side of the valley.  Then others, more distant.  Avalanches -- point releases of snow, mud, and rock -- are coming down all around.





Although I'd never leave the tent entirely all day, at this point I stood and poked my head out to assess our campsite in terms of avalanche safety.  If several more feet of snow were to fall -- a distinct possibility -- we could be in real danger.  For the immediate future we're safe.  I drift back to sleep.  


Between naps I use the Inreach to communicate with Eric in Anchorage and Jason Geck in Kennicott.  Eric tells us the Goat Trail is hard to find even with no snow, Jason says the upcoming terrain is hazardous even when dry.  Stay put is the message and we have no interest in differing with it.


We nap, graze lightly on food that is already running thin, nap again, then when rain stops and clouds brighten we wring out sodden gear and hang it from any surface that might support it.  In this manner we pass a day and to all of our surprise our clothing dries completely.  I contemplate sewing my ailing shoes back together but can't see a way that that will actually work -- the sides are already too frayed.  I compromise by cutting my one tube into sleeves to wear over the top of the shoes, hoping that each sleeve will do dual duty in keeping gravel out and protecting the frayed material from further decomposition.  And then I nap some more.








As night falls the drizzle returns, and we drift off in hopes that we won't wake to yet deeper snow.

[MikeC]

No new snow.  Yesterdays accumulation rapidly melting, but with unsettled weather about we don't dare linger longer.  It's easy to motivate quickly because we have little left in our larder to eat, thus no breakfast to dawdle over.  That, and after ~36 hours inert we're bedsore and ready to move.





Routefinding for the first ~mile is easy: Sense the negative space where veg is light or boulders are smaller, and move toward it.  Discover abundant tracks of animals when you arrive there.  Feel a sense of satisfaction at learning to move like the locals.





Where the Chitistone Gorge begins we get pinched up onto the infamous Goat Trail.  I cannot specifically recall when first I learned of this route but it's been at least two decades and maybe almost three.  Delayed gratification.



^ Looking back toward camp before it recedes from view.


I could add context -- some quip or anecdote -- to every one of these pictures but doing so doesn't really make them better.  The place is stunning, exceptionally so.  My verbal gropings attempting to explain it are anything but.





I can't be sure if they're inspired by the scenery or just too cold to stop, but the boys are setting a spirited pace and again I struggle to keep them in sight.  Only because the trail dives deeply into incisions before emerging out the other side does it seem like we are "close".  Glad I brought a 200mm lens.





There are a few engaging, exposed, heart-in-throat moments but mostly we just keep traversing and gaining elevation.  We get much higher than expected, or seemingly needed.  Then we come to a side creek that has cut a gorge equal in size to the Chitistone's, and it becomes obvious why we've ended up so high: absent a parachute it's the only way through.








A brief snack, some attention getting snowfield sidehilling, then we hit what feels like a "real" trail and I snap pedals back in and ride.








Trail builders -- no doubt discussing NEPA documents and matching funds.








We regroup at an obvious bench, snacking and laughing, admiring the falls, the amphitheater, and the gorge while Brett transitions back to hands-on-bars mode.





Across this Julie Andrews meadow we ride, briefly, before a ~45 minute 'schwack to get down to the Chitistone again.  At last.





We suss out a crossing just upstream, spend the hour it takes to get across, then resume mostly riding riverside benches and bars.





The previous owner of this rabbit (actually hare) foot would like to disagree with your notion that good luck comes to it's possessor.  We saw dozens of these -- mostly along the Nabesna and Nizina -- always coincident with dwarf willows stripped of all bark to about our navels.





We pedaled along the Chitistone and occasionally -- when pinched -- were forced to 'schwack up into the alders to get past constrictions at river level.  Below, approaching Glacier Creek.





Pre-trip, Roman had leaned hard on us to forgo multiple boats so that we'd be better able to take advantage of the incredible riding on this route.  At the same time, Eric had made clear that when we arrived at this point -- near the Chitistone/Nizina confluence -- we would sorely regret not having multiple boats.  


Part of Roman's schtick was to pass off the floating -- especially *right here* -- as 'boring grey glacial mank' -- and it is certainly that.  But the riding could also be classified as boring, or at least tedious.  Back when Roman and friends did this route -- 3 decades ago, remember -- the idea of riding wilderness animal trails was so far out there that I think the fact that they were able to ride at all was like a bolt from the blue to them.  Hell, mountain biking anywhere was in it's infancy: there were at most a few thousand people worldwide that had opened their eyes to it.  I could see how to Roman, Jon, and Carl riding this route would feel exceptional.  Considering how few have completed it with bikes in the ensuing three decades it's *still* way ahead of it's time.


Given where bike technology has gone since then, and where each in our group has taken these incredible machines in our explorations, cobble bar riding is simply not much to get excited about.  So it's not that Roman was wrong -- although Eric was certainly right -- so much as just that times have changed.  We know we can ride cobbles -- and we also know there's nothing particularly exciting about them.














We alternately ride and 'schwack through the day, all sort of sensing that the trip is coming to a close -- a rookie trap to fall into before the trip has actually ended.  Past the Nizina confluence the river pushes us up into the willows, then alders, then swamps.  The bugs are ferocious, the day steamy.  Map scrutiny reveals that this 'schwack could last 3 hours -- all to cover less than a mile.  Doom, after energetically leading us through so many others, drops his bike, turns back toward the group and utters "I'm not sure I can do another one of these -- my patience is worn really thin...".  Indeed.





Thus begins the first of many crossings of the Nizina.  This is a big, braided, glacial river that's swollen from the recent rain and snow.  We can wade some of the braids but the boat is necessary to cross several.  Over the next 6+ hours -- we don't stop until past 2AM -- we cover little ground despite constant motion to get across in whatever way makes the most sense.  With hindsight we're certain that we could have ridden 99% of what we already have -- even with a full boating kit per man.  Had we opted in that direction we'd have floated effortlessly past this spot over 2 days ago.








Above, crossing the Nizina at Dan Creek.  Below, the Chugach coming into view downstream.





We're tired, sore, bug bitten, stinky, cranky.  And getting hungrier.  The trip has been amazing, largely because of the challenges.  No one wants to be crossing glacial melt at 2AM in the gloaming subarctic twilight, but with flights to catch in less than 24 hours -- and food more or less gone -- we've run out of options.  We brew and share a thin hoosh then nap a few hours before resuming our slow progress.





A deep, fast braid of the Nizina pushed hard against a rock wall mandates that we pull out the boat.  Again.  So much prior practice makes the crossing go quickly and once on the other side we see -- mercifully -- ATV tracks.  We follow these to May Creek, where an actual road begins.  We take a minute to celebrate the moment, shaking and sharing the last dregs from our snack bags as we transition gear from backs onto bikes for the long climb up to McCarthy.





I'll be back in a few days with a video, some closing thoughts, and -- of course -- some gear geekery on what worked, what didn't, and what I'd do differently if I were to attempt this route again.


Thanks for checkin' in.

[MikeC]

I've made a hundred+ videos from trips through the years.  On 90+ of them I spent at least a dozen and more than 20 hours trying to get everything 'just so' with the editing, color grading, sound quality, stabilization, etc...  All while trying to tell a story and share some of the more poignant moments.  Oh, and trying to keep it under 3 minutes so those with the attention span of a newt will actually watch.


And I'm sick of that.  It is so thankless.  I don't get paid for these vids, they are done purely voluntarily, and the motivation to do them comes strictly from wanting to share a cool trip in a way that might help others wanting to do said trip.  All those extra hours of culling and editing actually take away from that end goal -- helping by sharing -- and for what?  So that some guy halfheartedly paying attention (while eating a bagel and watching on his phone) can close the window after 30 seconds and say "I think those dudes were lost in Maine somewhere" because he never bothered to engage.


We're all like that -- distracted and moving too fast -- to some extent.  Just a fact of modern life.  I'm tired of catering to it when there are some that actually want to see the real nitty-gritties of a trip like this, even if it means they have to take a 20 minute break from Fakebook to get there.


Thus, I spent a lot less time on this video in order to give you the full-value, real-deal, unabridged experience.


https://vimeo.com/282003259

(no idea how to embed video here -- if someone wants to clue me in I'll edit this)


I failed to capture any of the real bushwhacking.  When your field of view is like 8" to the next fully-leafed-out branch you have to plow through, and both hands are in use (one controlling the bike, one flapping at bugs or pushing alder or devils club out of the way), it's both difficult and usually fruitless trying to film at the same time.  By the time I get the camera out the guys are already 20' away, which might as well be miles when it's this thick.  So, no bushwhacking.  There are some clips of us walking through the woods with bikes -- this is NOT 'shwacking!  If it's so thin that you can see another person at more than 2' away, that's just good walking.


Very little footage of the boat crossings either.  It was important to be a team player to shorten our time spent not covering ground, which meant that I was either ferrying bikes or people, or reassembling bikes, as were the others.


I shot on a Canon 5d3 with a 28-200 lens.  Only lens I brought.  This lens is a great blend of wide and long, and it is both cheap and light.  It is not stabilized, and you will be able to tell.  Sorry.  Would have loved to have brought my 28-300L IS lens, but that would have been an extra 2.5 to 3# of metal and glass hanging off my chest.  Given that we were already cutting corners to go light, that was a bridge too far.  The only thing I had that seemed superfluous on this trip was the camera, but I can't imagine not having it along.


POV was shot with a Go Pro Hero Session, handheld or held between my teeth.  You'll hear me breathing on many of the mouth-cam POV clips -- sort of annoying, sorry.


In culling the ~95 minutes of clips I got down to the ~17 you'll see here, I'm amazed that I never once captured audio of the hermit and swainsons's thrush that constantly accompanied us.  I find their ethereal, haunting songs uplifting -- also calming, like coming home -- in the extreme.  We heard them every day but they were especially welcome -- seemingly just outside the tents -- during the ~36 hours we spent parked while it snowed in the headwaters of the Chitistone.  I heard a single gray-cheek thrush riffing out it's amplified paean as we junkshowed gear at Nabesna.  It registered and brought a smile to my face even though I was busy on every other level.  Felt like a kick-start to the great riding that followed.


Back in a few days with a wrap-up on gear minutiae and any random thoughts that come to mind.


Thanks for checkin' in.

[MikeC]

I finally finished the gear-geeking extravaganza, with probably more info than even the biggest gear nerds will want.

It is big and unwieldy -- so much so that I'm not going to go through the rigamarole of x-posting it.  Please find it here:

http://lacemine29.blogspot.com/2018/08/alpine-style-gear-geeking-and-wrap-up.html

Don't hesitate with questions.

[alpamayo]

Photos and video are so good!

Last link not working for me