Looking for Alaska (72 page)

Our new guy-home was dug into the side of a hillside, just under the top. At one time this little hut, about eighteen feet wide by twenty-eight feet long, was on top of the hill, but some storms blowing in from the former Soviet Union or the Bering Sea exerted their dominance over this man-made trifling combination of two-by-fours, plywood, windows, and insulation. It would have blown away but it was held down by cables. Now the backside of it was dug into the hillside. The front had five eighteen-by-thirty-eight-inch windows. Our tiny, narrow shelter faced almost straight south into a colossal valley that seemed to spread out into forever. This could not have been a more perfect home away from home for Jerry. We had shelter, it could snow, it could rain almost continuously as it had on Eberhard and his German client. The wind could try to blow us away. We had clothing to handle all this, but living in a small tent for a week was not what Jerry deserved for his biggest adventure away from Jorgensen Farms.

Our first day was sunshine and even at forty-five degrees the windows let in enough solar energy to warm up the place. There were four bunks. Larry and Jerry took the bottom ones. Larry decided after seeing me attempt to squeeze into the one over him that he should switch with me. He said something about thinking I was considerably younger than I am, so he'd given me the top bunk. Larry was a charming person you liked immediately. He was thirty-three, powerfully built, about five feet ten inches tall, 185 pounds. When he was in junior high, he won awards in the national Junior Olympics for weight lifting. Part of the concept of spending a few days at Stony River Lodge, other than waiting for your guide, was for Jim Harrower to check out the hunters he didn't know. He could quickly analyze a person's physical capacities, mental toughness, and shooting ability, everyone sighting in his rifle under Don's watchful gaze. Jim had put us in the perfect spot. We could sit on this knoll and literally gaze over several hundred square miles of country. Above us was open tundra-laced mountainside, rising to over five thousand feet. We were at about two thousand feet. Larry hoped we'd see moose below us. The land dropped off steadily over a thousand feet in elevation to the Stony River, which we could clearly see winding along. A couple times we saw distant smoke on some sandbar where wilderness hunters or adventurers were floating the river maybe five miles away. In certain directions we could probably see fifty miles or more.

Larry was our boss, Jerry was the reason we were here, I was the “do-whatever.” Larry told us we'd be sitting on the knoll above the hut, a 360-degree vista. We would spend several hours every day with our binoculars to our eyes, glassing the little marshy openings and open tundra. Larry said sometimes if the sun was out, a bull moose's extremely wide antlers would reflect the sun and show up in the eternal green below like someone holding up a white T-shirt. It could show up as a tiny speck three miles away, larger if it was closer. It was doubtful one would come close as on the night we'd arrived. Bull moose use their concave antlers and large ears to hear the slightest noise, the way a radar dish focuses radio waves. Jerry wore two hearing aids; he'd already lost one on one of our walks. We'd have to whisper a lot, Larry said; that would be quite a challenge. I've always had excellent eyesight and am good at noticing the slightest movement. The first day we spent several hours sitting on the ground, kneeling, just watching. I spotted a golden eagle soaring up a slight valley behind us. A couple caribou were a couple miles up in the tundra. A small owl flittered over, hunting. Two female moose were in a lake three miles or so below us. Larry, who'd grown up in Kansas, told me that although Jerry was in outstanding shape for a seventy-year-old, we'd have to locate a moose within a mile, no more than two miles; if Larry thought it was right, we'd stalk it. From around 7
A.M
. until midmorning we glassed the wilderness.

I'm not sure what the correct definition of wilderness is. That's one thing about sitting on a rock and staring into the wild: you can think about these things. The wild is a place where the balance of nature is about attempting to survive. Predators prey on weaker, slower, smaller predators. The wilderness is not the Garden of Eden, it's about taking and creating life. We humans are no different; some of us are so far removed from the killing part that we've lost perspective.

Some past hunter or guide had left a National Park Service publication out here under my foam mattress with some other reading materials. After a while you read anything, even the back of Spam cans. The publication said:

To most of us, the vast stretches of forest, tundra, and mountain lands in Alaska constitute a wilderness in the most absolute sense of the word. In our minds, this land is wilderness because it is undisturbed, pristine, lacking in obvious signs of human activity. To us undisturbed land is unoccupied or unused land. But in fact, most of Alaska is not wilderness, nor has it been for thousands of years.

Much of Alaska's apparently untrodden forests and tundra land is thoroughly known by people whose entire lives and cultural ancestry is intimately associated with it. Indeed, to the Native inhabitants, these lands are no more an unknown wilderness than are the streets of a city to its residents.

The fact that we identify Alaska's remote country as wilderness derives from our inability to conceive of occupying and utilizing land without altering or completely eliminating its natural state. But the Indians and the Eskimos have been living this way for thousands of years. Certainly then, theirs has been a successful participation as members of an ecosystem.

We pick up Jerry's diary: “After lunch we walked north on the ridge on centuries-old game trails. Some wolf and moose tracks along the way, plus scrubbed-up trees. It's obvious with all the wolf and grizzly sign, their dropping loaded with caribou and moose hair, that the moose and caribou are under pressure. Larry said he's only seen 5 moose calves the last two years, a bad sign. We crossed three creeks and stopped at the Hell Hole about a mile and a half from camp.”

I'm sure Larry wanted to take Jerry and me, with small packs and rifles, walking through this country on this ridgeline to see what Jerry could do. If it came time and we saw a bull moose below us, Larry wanted to know how fast Jerry could move. This trail was a wild-animal highway. They used it for ease of travel. Predators such as wolves could do the same thing we were doing: see a moose in the open, go and try to get it. The winter caretaker at Jim's lodge, Arno, said that the worst time for these moose is when they calve. The bears and wolves follow the cows and grab calves almost as soon as they hit the ground. He has found several fresh scat piles with baby moose hooves in them.

As we walked the trail silently, some past predator's spirit came upon me. In terms of history, it hasn't been long since my ancestors, covered in fur clothes, walked trails like this in what is now Europe searching for something to kill to feed their families.

Jerry: “I hope we will see the bull we saw last night, again. This country separates the men from the old men. Peter and Larry are both good walkers. They haven't had to carry me in yet. It is truly a great experience just being out here. It is down to 36° already at 9:30
P.M
. Time to go to bed. For the third morning in a row it is 26°. However we have a sprinkle of snow and a very cold wind. I guess the windchill index is near zero. There was no need for towels, washcloth, and soap on the list, baby wipes are the standard option. Larry and Peter are freezing on the hill, where they are looking for moose, one or the other is coming down every half hour to warm a little. We started kerosene heaters for the first time.” Larry had told us he does not like to start heaters; he keeps things spartan so hunters will not get too comfortable and not want to go out.

“About 11:30 (freezing still), Peter spotted a bull moose about ½ mile below us and moving left to right through the trees. We all get to see him but he was moving too fast to intercept. We are spending fourteen-plus hours a day glassing.”

It had now been about four days of looking and searching the wetlands below, hoping to catch a bull moose move in the dense evergreens, hoping that there would be one coming along the trail. We'd passed several bushes and small, cold-and-wind-stunted trees that a bull moose had trashed with his antlers. They do this to clean off the velvet when they first appear, and to mark their territory. Right now the rut was either in or close, and bull moose were gathering up as many cows as possible. Larry told us stories about the loudest sounds one could imagine when two equally matched bulls had fought to gain control over potentially breedable females. Larry said the same thing goes on at some bar in Anchorage called the Bush Club. Jerry didn't hear that one.

Jerry: “We didn't see anything on the evening watch. There can't be many animals here.”

Fortunately both Jerry and I greatly enjoy living like this. That night there was another dinner with Spam chopped up in freeze-dried noodles. It was time for a bit of humor; Jerry was getting a bit discouraged, which for a farmer is a hard place to get to. I told him how I sometimes called Rita “Jerita” and Julianne “Jerrianne,” because they reminded me of him. That fell with a thud. It had worked before. Larry was writing a letter to his wife and new baby daughter back in Girdwood where they lived. I told him about a skit I'd seen on
Saturday Night Live
about Bill and Hillary watching TV. That one bombed. Dad watched sports, news, and probably more than anything the Weather Channel. I picked up a can of Spam. Jerry had said, without any levity tonight, that his wife would never serve him Spam. On the back of the can, there was actually Spam marketing. It said that it cost $15 to join the official Spam Fan Club for one year. For the fifteen bucks you get a “members only” Spam Fan Club T-shirt, membership certificate, membership card. (Can you imagine pulling that out when a state trooper pulled you over for aggressive driving?) They actually had recipes, a quarterly newsletter, and a number to call, 1-800-LOVE-SPAM. Larry was listening, he laughed. And so did Jerry.

Jerry: “Another clear and cold night, 21° this morning. Larry started to glass at 7:15
A.M
. Larry started raking and calling about 8:50
A.M
.” Raking is beating an old moose antler or this hard plastic tube on the brush. It copies the bull moose when he is raking his antlers. He also called by sort of moaning into the tube. It supposedly sounded good to a moose.

Jerry: “Peter spotted a bull moose down in the flats. We quickly got together our gear and lunch and started down the mountain. After a rough and rugged ¾ mile we set up on a small ridgetop in the cover of some spruce. We saw him, he was a big bull (Larry estimates the antlers at more than five feet wide). He had 3 cows at least with him and was 500–600 yards away. Larry called him across one meadow and into a strip of trees. If he came out on our side of the trees, I was in a position for a 300-yard shot.”

Huddled there, all three of us intensely focused, trying to be as silent as a moth flying, watching that glorious bull, so huge and yet so able to disappear. I could see it so clearly in my binoculars, its ears moving better than the most sophisticated radar dish, wondering where was that rival bull raking the brush. That rival was the expert Larry. The bull, I could tell, wanted to come and fight, beat back any rival, but didn't want to leave his hard-gained cows. We whispered to each other—it was hard to whisper to Jerry. We crouched there for what seemed like an hour, though it may have been only twenty minutes.

Jerry: “Unfortunately he turned around in the trees and went back to his cows. Why be greedy for another cow and a fight or risk getting shot? We then circled to a hill to the north of them about 300–400 yards from the area they were in. We stayed there from 11:00 to 4:45, calling every 30 minutes, but nothing showed.”

We hiked back up the mountain, a rough, demanding hike. Larry and I glassed some more and spotted a cow and possibly a bull.

Jerry: “Tomorrow we hope to locate my bull again. It's all I can handle to make the trip down to the flats and back. Anyone thinking moose are easy or dumb should try hunting Grizzly Flats.”

It was now Tuesday, September 19, a balmy twenty-seven degrees, Jerry recorded.

Jerry: “At 8:15
A.M
., Larry is raking above camp trying to locate a bull for us to stalk. The regular coffee ran out so we are down to instant, quite a hardship on me. Larry and Peter located the 64'' model and his three cows but they are deeper in the trees, 1½ to 2 miles away, and not an option for today. Also saw a 57'' bull with one cow. We have until the 25th when the season ends for one of them to make a mistake. As tired as I've been, I haven't had sore legs the next morning. My back is normal also. I'm making this diary as complete as possible for my family, friends, and fellow hunters as my memory (plus many other things) isn't as good as it should be.” That represents one of the many inspiring characteristics of my father-in-law. He didn't say “isn't as good as it used to be.” He still demands excellence from himself and all body parts.

Another day passed. The longer we stayed, surprisingly, the less interested I was in the world out there. I could not have cared less about world issues, the news. I was concerned about my family but felt spiritually connected to them, enough to know if anything was wrong. I worried less about time passing and grew more patient. We were like a pack of wolves or pride of lions just waiting on the ridge for our chance. Jerry seemed to be in the same state of mind. For such an entrepreneur, it is not easy to let anyone else take over.

Jerry: “Weather has changed overnight. Temp now at 44° and looks like rain. Larry has seen the big bull again and we are planning our stalk, lighter clothes but including rain gear. While waiting for word to head out, I will catch up on notes I made using a 180-grain bullet as a ‘lead pencil.' It's 8:45
A.M
. and Larry has decided it's time to try a stalk on the big moose and his harem. Larry estimates they are about a mile and a half down in the flats. Another factor to consider is the bull is distracted by being challenged by the smaller bull who has only one cow. As we work our way down the mountain, Peter and Larry glass at every bench. When Larry would rake the brush and call, it got him really excited. I guess he now thought he had two challengers.”