Late last winter my friend Abbey Janes called asking if I’d surprise her husband Mike with a mini-adventure to celebrate his 40th birthday. We’d all become buddies 13 years prior when Mike and I teamed up for a winter ski to Atlin, British Columbia. By the end of that trip we had planned a list of mountaineering and wilderness expeditions to make together.
We made one more adventure that spring, then fate had other plans. Mike and Abbey embarked on the journey of starting a family — something more important, terrifying, hard and rewarding than hanging off mountains. We still made trips together, but now they revolved around hunting critters to feed the bellies of those we care for.
When Abbey called last winter, I was excited by her idea and immediately set to planning. There was a watershed on Admiralty Island that I always wanted to explore. In years past I’d walked a few hundred yards up from where the estuarine meadow met the old growth forest. Bear trails — where bears have stepped in the same spots for generations — crisscrossed the area. A paradoxical feeling of longing to go deeper into the woods and knowing I didn’t belong there came over me.
The longing to go deeper won out. On a bluebird day Mike and I beached pack-rafts on a gravelly beach covered with clumps of goose tongue and browsed sedges. A bear and a small herd of deer grazed the edge of the forest. One deer came within 20 yards of the bear, but it was intent on greens — so intent that it didn’t spook while we shoved rafts into our backpacks and hiked past it into the woods.
The first half mile had a lot of bear sign, but we had a good tail wind and hollered every so often to let them know we were passing through. We stopped to admire a bear bed at the base of a giant spruce tree. A deer skull and fish bones were arranged the edge in a manner suggesting intelligent design.
Not a piece of surveyor’s flagging, rusted can or a blaze of an axe marred the forest. We walked beneath giant trees that were ancient when Columbus put the Americas on the charts. Bear trails the size of bike paths cut through mazes of devil’s club and above different branches of the stream. By late evening we made it to near the creek’s source. After a quick dinner, we fell asleep to the sound of rain falling and the whispering of a brook.
In the half light of morning I crawled out of the tent to make coffee. I got the feeling I wasn’t alone. I squinted into the darkness. A half dozen deer slowly walked through the woods.
We pushed through a mile or so of brush and were rewarded with cedars. There’s nothing that smells better than yellow cedar, except maybe a fresh caught king salmon or the first venison steak in August frying in cast iron. We crossed a foggy low pass that led down to Hasselborg Lake. There were so many sooty grouse hooting that the lake continuously echoed with their lovelorn calls.
We paddled nine miles or so to the other side of the Hasselborg and then followed a short portage trail to Alexander Lake. Someday I intend to learn more about the lake’s namesake, Annie Alexander. She helped found Berkley’s Museum of Vertebrate Zoology and made expeditions to wild places around the world, including Alaska. She hired the crack woodsman Allen Hasselborg as a guide during expeditions and helped shape the legendary Southeast Alaskan’s life.
Mike and I hiked the three miles to Mole Harbor, where Allen Hasselborg lived alone for most of his life. Heavy rain and big winds had the bay looking like anything but a harbor. We cinched our rain gear and continued out to Seymour Canal. The wind was on our backs, which is great for warning bears. There’s no better defense than man-stink to scare away bears. The only bear we saw that day got one whiff and ran.
Late in the day we neared Staunch Point and Windfall Harbor. It was high tide and the beach got cliffy, so we clambered up into the woods and followed bear trails. I’d hiked here before and it’s full Tongass travel (brush, cliffs and tears) to round the point. I took a stick in the eye and spent a while following Mike half blind before we agreed it was time to inflate our rafts and paddle. At camp we sat in the rain talking about the gray in our whiskers, today’s kids with their rap music and skinny pants and how the mountains just keep getting bigger.
The following morning a howling southerly blew us across Windfall Harbor to Pack Creek. One of the bigger male bears that regularly uses Pack Creek popped out of the brush. My buddy Ken Leghorn nicknamed him Smiley due to his upturned lips. Having worked as a bear viewing guide for the last seven years, I’d been lucky enough to spend a fair amount of time with Smiley and his kin. Mike and I took a few steps out of his way and then stood still as he passed by without so much as giving us a glance. We heard the sound of the Alaska Seaplanes Beaver floatplane we’d deadhead back to town on.
Admiralty Island passed beneath us as we flew north. The woods, bays and the mountains had stories for me. Some were experienced alone, others with family and friends. Memories laced with wonder, death and love came over me. I glanced over at Mike in the co-pilot’s seat and thought how lucky I was to have him as a friend. The Chilkat and Coastal Mountains were clear as we cut across Stephens Passage and neared home.
• Bjorn Dihle is a Juneau writer. He is the author of Haunted Inside Passage: Ghosts, Legends and Mysteries of Southeast Alaska and Never Cry Halibut: and Other Alaska Fishing and Hunting Tales. You can contact or follow him at facebook.com/BjornDihleauthor.
Mike Janes checking out a bear trail at the beginning of a trek on Admiralty Island in spring of 2018. (Photo by Bjorn Dihle)
