As the drone of the Beaver fades into the distance we are left in silence, dwarfed by the surrounding mountains, so close you could reach out and touch them… no wait… that’s our own hastily ejected mass of gear. Fifty kilograms of equipment and food for a two week trip – what were we thinking… or were we just thinking too much??? Well as they say in Canada…. “if you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough!”
Feelings of excitement and anticipation have now given way to ones of foreboding and menace. Standing at sea level on the appropriately named Oozy Flats – pretty much the feeling I have in my stomach - we are less than 50 metres from the gnarled and toothy terminus of the Taku Glacier, rearing up like some freak wave about to smash in front of us and one can but succumb the undertow and ensuing violence.
Somehow after our best efforts at detailed planning - we have not made it up onto the glacier, did not make our food drop and are delayed by two days. Now, as we slowly amass our respective sleds, stealing glances at the sleeping beast, the first drops of rain start to fall. Once again, as it seems with all Jim Welsh inspired trips, we start against the odds. The standing joke being that you are likely to have at least one near death experience when on a trip with Jimmy… but isn’t that why we are here? Now the thought of having to drag 50kgs of sled and gear some 10km over the broken horror show of crevasses, just to reach our intended starting point, is almost too much to bear. Then reminded of the Klondike Gold Rushers attempting to ferry 1 ton of supplies and gear up over these passes, I feel slightly ashamed and weak. I strengthen my resolve – so be it... so be it...
We left Juneau the five of us - an eclectic mix of a Canadian couple, a Swede, an Alaskan and me ‘The Kiwi’ - all literally sardined into a Beaver fixed wing for an attempted landing at the Mendenhall Towers. We could see the convective cloud building whilst milling around the airport. Deciding to chance it anyway, we are forced on-route to ‘Plan B” and not surprisingly find the same low convective cloud at the Taku Glacier. Painfully aware that whilst in the air we might as well be setting fire to US greenbacks, we agree to set down on the nearest flat piece of ground - hence Oozy Flats – anything than to spend another night in that crack den masking as the Alaskan Hotel….
Having been heavily rained on during the night we awake to blue sky, scattered cloud and the mingling smell of ocean and wet pine. Yeup – I guess we are still at sea level then huh? Over dinner the previous night we had decided to submit to the will of the gods – should the weather clear we would use the satellite phone to call in air support - if not, we would take our chances in the nasty labyrinth. It was an easy decision. Once in the air we can see the true severity of the lower crevasse zone. An overlay of crevasse forms all weaved into a nasty dense lattice of which there would have been many dead ends and many days of travel. With one costly but sagacious swipe of the credit card we put behind us the whole nasty nightmare… “Bring on the kiting!” was now the call. (At this point I hear the purists scoffing, however we had long decided that we were here to kite and not simply drag our arses from Juneau to Atlin).
Having landed on the glacier we get a feeling for the true extent and majesty of area. Stretching from Taku Inlet in the south to Skagway in the north and penned in between the Pacific Ocean and Atlin Lake, the Juneau Icefields straddles the US-Canada border and covers some 1500 square miles. The whole Coast Mountain range is renowned for its heavy snowfalls (think Valdez and Haines) as warm moist air from the Pacific banks up against this formidable barrier resulting in over 100 feet of the good stuff annually. The icefield itself is dominated by wide-open expanses bound by jagged knife-like towers, as if the earth were trying to claw its way out from under the thick blanket of snow and ice.
Immediately we see the kiting potential and… there is no wind. We walk all of 2km before deciding to basecamp. No sense in burning up energy when we could kite this without raising a pulse. After a couple of hours camp starts to take on regal proportions, with the finishing touches put on the igloo just on dusk. Awaking to a total whiteout, sleet and….. no wind. We pass the day eating our way through the stash of pre-cooked meals designated for our failed food drop – the vacuum packed lasagne, chill and omelettes that constitute a good portion of the weight and bulk of our food cache. Inside the igloo is a relatively warm and pleasant, although noticeably shrinking microclimate.
Day 4 – the cloud cover is thick and absolute, flat light and again no wind. With murmurings over breakfast about one of the group being a wind-Jonah we decide to ski tour to the nearest feature, Hodgkins Peak. All sense of distance and perspective is lost up here. Looking out from camp the peak appears so close, but on consulting the map is over 4km away. A few turns, a short-lived kite during a puff of wind and spirits are high again. Whilst eating ourselves into a coma we decide it’s time to move toward our destination. Tomorrow will be day 5 and having made all of 2km, we still have a straight line distance of 96km remaining to ‘The Scamper’.
The Scamper. At this point we need a word about ‘The Scamper’…. (okay here we go into the classic flashback scene…). It all started back in the season of 2003 when feeling somewhat dejected and self-loathing over the lack of snow at Kicking Horse Resort, we decided on a whim and probably after one too many whiskeys, to road trip to Alaska. We had the 4x4 truck - all we needed was some plush accommodation - what better than one of those campers that slot into the back then? Whilst taking a beer in the Moberly Tavern – practically a daily ritual – we ask the owner about the one out the back. We can have it, he says – just wants ride of the damn thing – nasty divorce, selling up, leaving town, etc, etc. Beers in hand we check it out. With a foot of melting snow on the roof, the ceiling is water logged and sagging 6 inches, the carpets are like a mossy swamp and the smell is rich and earthy. It’s basically wetter inside than out. “It’s perfect!”, I hear Jimmy say and we all turn to one another with the hugest grins – we had just found our home on the road! After a week of renovation we are rolling and as one adventure leads into another we eventually find ourselves 2000km away, ice fishing on Atlin Lake, looking across at the Juneau Icefields… speculating. Three years later we finally return to kite the traverse – same friends – same Scamper.
Fade into present day….. we break camp – again total whiteout, it’s snowing lightly but the wind is good enough to fly. Uncertain about navigating and kiting with zero visibility, we sit around in the igloo hoping for a clearing. By lunch we think viz or not we gotta make some miles and head out into the nothingness. Wind at our backs and kites flying, we slowly navigate toward the Nunatak Chalet, our goal for the day. After a nervous 1.5km the wind dies and we are left to slog away at the remaining distance roped up and on foot. What a relief to find a dry hut with foamies. After 4 nights sleeping on snow I am quietly rueing my decision to go light… or more to the point - go cheap. A 3 season thermarest and 8 year old Macpac sleeping bag just don’t cut it. I listen to Billy the ever practical Swede, sleeping dreamily on double mats and in a bag aptly dubbed the “Inferno” – whilst I lie as still as possible feeling the glacier slowly rob me of warmth like a silent thief in the night.
The dawn is clear and spectacular from our vantage point. We stand overlooking the heart of the icefield – the 10km wide plateau of the Taku glacier, ringed with jagged towers. The Taku Towers ominous in the distance, looking like the gates to Mordor beset with winter. Yet, again no wind! Now we are seriously considering making a sacrifice to the wind gods. Again we don skins on skis and start the slow plod toward the Matthes glacier. Having a better feel for the area we travel unroped for the first time. The glacial terrain is practically flat and featureless, the vistas so massive it’s like walking on a treadmill, nothing appears to change.
By early afternoon we feel the first hints of a freshening breeze. By late afternoon we are flying and tacking into a strong headwind. Zigzagging back and forth across the Matthes in 4km legs we make no more than a walking pace up the glacier. Nobody cares – it’s all whooping and huge grins. This is it! This is why we are here!
We kite well past sunset and set up camp in the semi-light of the dusk. This was the first test of our homemade sleds at speed. Having had a few days to hone the system we settled on packing the sleds low with all the food and equipment in the bottom and carrying light packs. Bouncing along behind us they proved remarkably reliable, like a faithful dog ever at the heels.
Awoken at 6 am to the screams of wind….WIND! With scattered cloud and good viz we rush to break camp and start flying. Again tacking into a headwind, but it feels good to be blasting back and forth across the Matthes. After 2.5 hours the wind becomes too light to kite. We have made 5km but kited something like 40-50km in total. We take a long leisurely lunch in the sun, listening to tunes with stupid broad grins on our faces. All, sadly, except Seth the Alaskan who appears as a small speck slowly moving toward us. A word of advice – this is not the place to be trialling or “tweaking” homemade kites. Have the system down beforehand. With our factory foils the rest of us are ready to fly in 2 minutes, taking full advantage of the fickleness of the wind.
By mid arvo we are back skinning under the fierce eye of the sun. We can’t help but think if we would only get a good tail wind we could peel off 30km no problem. We camp 5km from the divide, the arbitrary border between the US and Canada. Shrouded in cloud the boundary peaks remain hidden.
Pay dirt! The day of wind! The light is surreal – we are standing in a break in the clouds. The sky above us is brilliant blue yet all around is concealed in cloud and drifting snow. The wind buffets out hastily dug wall and covers us in spindift as we take lunch and a break from the mayhem. With the wind gusting over 40km/h we have just made 8km in 50 minutes – including a number of wreaks. Being on point, managing the kite and navigating by GPS in the poor visibility and strong winds is nerve wracking yet equally thrilling. As we clock up the miles we stop on the flanks of Mount Ogilvie – masked in cloud for the last 3 days its form remains hidden. We had hoped to summit – but after a quick discussion the call is to push on while the wind is favourable. As we drop below the cloud ceiling the visibility improves and Atlin Lake appears for the first time. Spirits are high as we now start to enjoy the kiting session. Playing in the moderate winds our path becomes erratic and whimsical. Finally at sunset we choose a campsite on the flanks of the Llewellyn glacier having kited a total of 26km.
Over dinner I express regret at having passed blindly by the spectacular boundary peaks and the huge plateau at the glacial summit – the birthplace of these massive leviathans. Now as we sun ourselves in camp, the decision feels less hasty. Cloud billows over the summit plateau and continues to cloak the peaks. The marked orographic effect is obvious. On crossing the divide, white snow laden peaks and soft glacial surfaces have given way to rocky wind scoured slopes and hard packed wind crust. This being the predominant weather pattern we could have been days waiting for an unusual clear spell. No one is in any hurry. We have not made the halfway point yet the general feeling is that the pressure is off, we can see the lake, we can practically see the Scamper and taste the beer.
Early evening, as the glacier cools, the katabatic winds pick up and we have a great session hucking air against the setting sun. Without packs and sleds we almost feel weightless. Nine days into the trip we needed a day to just chill and recharge – finally we hit that euphoric state.
The next day the wind is holding and we decide to ski off the glacier. Choosing the right-hand side where the ice meets the moraine, to avoid the bare ice waves in the centre, we chance on a clear section. Skiing north to a central island of rock we find a smooth tongue leading off the glacier. Kicking my skis of in delight I immediately sink up to my waist in the rotten corn snow…. hmmm…. Terra Firma huh? We are still 300 vertical metres above the valley floor. The ski down is a total Gong Show. Trying to maintain control over the sleds is like trying to stop a runaway bull as they shoot past us hell bent on beating us to the bottom. We laugh our arses off as we each in turn face plant in the patchy rotten snow. Finally, we stand shedding gear at the edge of a large frozen lake – the final resting place of the Llewellyn glacier. The smooth lake surface is a stark contrast to the surrounding turmoil. Half toppled seracs radiate that cool blue, almost azure light of the heart of the glacier. The place feels magical, spiritual, a fitting gateway to the enchantment beyond. The kite session in this natural amphitheatre, under the shadow of the glacier was the by far the highlight of the trip.
Turning our backs on the glacier we pick our way through the moraine and cross the last evidence of an advancing glacier, now retreating from its former glory the terminus is over 6km away. We camp at treeline. The lake is hidden from us by a narrow river gorge - the final hurdle before the expected monotony of Atlin Lake. The next morning we navigate the gorge, crossing the river many times on thin sketchy ice over fast flowing water. After 11 days our sleds are light and we are all as thin as racing snakes, somehow we make it without incident. As the gorge opens up into a braided riverbed we feel the wind gusting at our backs – perfect!
The rest is a blur…. half expecting the wind to die at any moment we race to make it across the lake. Low on energy and in need of food, the call is to push on, push on! After a few hours of solid kiting we see the welcoming site of the Scamper. Exhausted and elated we have just travelled a massive 40km by wind in 2½ hours. A final confirmation of what we had expected all along… this is the only way to tour.
We awake to a bombsite. There’s a broken pool cue on the floor and something on the sidewalk that looks like it was last night’s burger and fries. With vague recollections of the night before, we meet the bartender. Looking as bad as we feel she mentions something in passing about out bar tab and the pool cue. In a one-horse town like Atlin, a dead end 100km from the Alaskan Highway, benders like this are not uncommon – they are expected! So as events come full circle the Scamper once again slinks slowly out of town.
For more info on kiting trips in the Yukon, check out www.kityukon.com
Enjoy!
