Taiya Trek

I had been hired to work as musher/guide for a dog mushing tour business, in Dyea, Alaska. Cruise ship tourists enjoy the opportunity to mush a dog team during the summer, whether it is on a wheeled cart on a dirt trail, as with the business we were hired for, or with a real sled on glacial snow, as we would be hired to do the following summer. Around May 15, 2006, I loaded up 60 dogs and began the 530 mile journey from Two Rivers to Skagway, traveling many hours down the potholed and narrow Alcan Highway, through Tok and Northway, in Alaska, Kluane Lake and Whitehorse, in Canada, and finally turning south through the White Pass.

The final 20 miles of the drive was the most challenging part of the journey, as the snow started falling heavily by the time I had reached the top of the pass, and multiple inches of slick snow blanketed the roadway. I had never driven through the White Pass, but had heard horror stories of the steep and windy route, bordered on the east by a shear drop of hundreds of feet. With balding tires (already having had a flat trailer tire in Carcross, Yukon Territory) and a very heavy trailer and truck filled with valuable sled dogs, I stopped in a pullout at the apex. Figuring that waiting out the storm would be better than sliding off of a cliff, I decided to feed and water the dogs and wait for a snowplow or the morning light, whichever came first. After melting snow to water the dogs and chasing down my loose lead dog, Arnie, I snuggled down into my sleeping bag in the cab of the truck.

The following morning I was able to travel down to Skagway on a plowed, but still terrifying, road, crossing through American customs and back onto American soil. We were camped in Dyea, approximately 10 miles northwest of Skagway proper, along the shores of the Taiya River. Bunked up in simple 8’x8,’ 2x4 framed cabins, with no insulation and a wood framed bed with no mattress, it was yet another experience that has taught me to be happy with what I am given. With the tiny wood stove installed in June, I was able to finally dry out clothing that had been dampened upon my arrival to the rainforests of the southeast panhandle of Alaska.

The history of Skagway and the surrounding area is terribly interesting, as it was the main thoroughfare for miners hoping to strike it rich during the Klondike Gold Rush of 1898, and the nonexistent town quickly boomed to 10,000 people (less than 4,000 people today). Thousands of men (and some women) came by ship to the shores of Skagway and Dyea, barely prepared for the journey ahead of them. The famous Chilkoot Trail began at the Taiya River, and was a 33 mile trek over the mountains and into the Canadian interior. Many lives, both human and animal, were lost on the arduous journey for fortune, the worst disaster and loss of human life being the avalanche on the Chilkoot Pass in 1898 when dozens of lives were lost. There is a graveyard in Dyea dedicated to the unlucky souls who perished not far from their destination. Alaska’s license plates show a stream of hopeful miners climbing up and over the treacherous Chilkoot pass, thereby being the only license plate in the United States that reveres people LEAVING the state, searching for a better life.



Miners Climbing the Chilkoot Trail

In every nook and cranny, every broken down and abandoned cabin, every foot of the old wooden boardwalks, the history was tangible. The bravery and adventurous spirit of these old sourdoughs was such an inspiration for me that I decided to set out on a trek of my own; not up the established Chilkoot trail, but into a rarely traveled area.

Last Remains of the Boom Town, Dyea

The West Fork of the Taiya River does not seem daunting when viewed on a map. It appears to be a simple and straightforward trek up the shore of a not too long and not too wide glacial river. An established trail would allow me to take my Honda 4WD quad much of the way to the river, setting me up for a seemingly short, 10 mile hike over trailess territory, and the opportunity for some amazing photo opportunities. I left early in the morning with a pack full of snacks, water and other essentials, including my machete, Uberti .45 Long Colt Pistol, my Savage .270 rifle, matches, digital camera, rain gear and my MP3 player with mini speakers. I drove the 15 miles up the trail, finally parking the wheeler where the quad trail became overgrown with alders and Devil’s Club, with mere tree blazes as navigation (blazes, or large scratches in trees, have been used for many years in Alaska to mark old trapline trails, before flagging was widely available).

Now, anyone who has ever hiked through Devil’s Club and alders is surely laughing hysterically at my intentions. Devil’s Club is as horrible a flora as its name implies, growing to enormous heights, and imbedding its barbed thorns into any piece of clothing or skin that it nears. This plant contains a poison that will cause extreme pain and swelling if you are unlucky enough to get pricked. The alders are equally terrible to navigate, as a single root system can cover whole square acres, and climbing through the thick, intertwined branches is the equivalent to crawling through a thick hedge.


Devil's Club


Nonetheless, I was undaunted by the thickening of the “trail” and was actually excited to be traveling where possibly no human had walked before. After 2 or so miles of tromping through the overgrown woods, I broke out onto a narrow gravel bar, the intersection of two tributaries of the West Fork. The beauty of what I saw is nearly indescribable, one stream milky white and ice cold, carrying the silty remains of the melting glacier, the other stream clear and thirst quenching. The union of these two winding snakes created a visible boundary of water, white on the far side and clear water closest to me, mixing together into oblivion, not far downstream. Thousands of feet above, loomed the glacier; our intended destination.


Climbing through Alders (photo courtesy of Ed Plumb)


After a short respite with a snack and a refill of the fresh, clear water, I was on my way, back into the woods and into thicker vegetation. By this time, the trail was nonexistent, and I was literally bushwhacking with the machete, hacking away at the thorny, twisting undergrowth, making progress of a mere hundred feet in an hour of grueling work. Upon stopping to rest, I heard the “crack” of a large alder branch braking, and I realized that I could not see but 10 feet in front of me. My ability to spot Brown Bears at a distance was severely limited, and surely preventing me from a quick get away, even if I did happen to spot one. Brown Bears are a bigger and stronger version of the Grizzly Bear, found within 20 miles of the coastal waterways. These animals often weigh up to 1500 lbs, and are able to kill a human being with one swipe of their huge claws. This was a dangerous situation to be in…

Noise. Scare them away before you surprise them in this prison like vegetation. Maybe I should just fire my pistol off… that would scare them away. As these thoughts raced through my mind, my eyes carefully studied the angles and twists of the woods, trying in vain to see what had broken the silence of the river valley. I took my mp3 player out of my pack and attached the speakers onto the outside; playing music would hopefully soothe the savage beast, or at least scare them away! And hiking to tunes wasn’t all half bad, either.

Thank goodness for the unending Alaskan summer days, as four hours later, I was still navigating my way through the underbrush, fighting the hoards of blood sucking mosquitoes, and the notion of a huge, human eating bear, skulking through the woods. The maze of alders finally thinned out to scrub spruce, marshy ground and milky, silty, crisscrossing creeks, signaling arrival at the upper reaches of the glacial river. The toe of the glacier was not in site, but as the river valley narrowed, narrow mini glaciers striped the walls, and made traversing along the edge of the valley floor impossible. The only option was to wade across the murky, ice cold water.

The powers of these small glacial streams are deceiving until you set food in one, and once waist-deep, there is often no way in a human’s power to stay upright. I hacked a downed scrub spruce trunk into a 5 foot pole and used it to navigate my way across the fast flowing streams. One crossing, two crossings, three crossings; still no real progress. It was time to analyze my position. I was sure, with just a few more hours of the monotonous crossings, that I would reach the toe of the glacier, but it was going on 8 o’clock pm and I was simply not prepared to stay the night either in the frigid wind zone of glacier (although it was June, glacial valleys remain notoriously cold all year round) or in the bear’s den of alders. I made the decision to turn back, never reaching my intended destination.

I arrived back at the dog camp around 2 am, sore, tired and covered in mosquito welts, but feeling very fulfilled and proud of how far I was able to travel. This adventure was just one more lesson in patience, perseverance and wise decision making. Even in failure, this escapade was a success, particularly when considering that I wasn’t eaten by a bear or drowned in a glacial stream.