Humans in the Mist

Two days of summiting have left my legs shaky, arms scratched, and nose sunburned. My first goal, Mt. Roberts, teased me for three days. Rain pored during the morning, fog clouded the tops, and I stayed inside, waiting.

Friday, I could wait no more. After much indecision on whether to stay for another week and fish or go home to Fairbanks, I decided to go. But Mt. Roberts had to be climbed before I once again left a town that had been my home for some of the best years of my life.

At 4:30 I filled my daypack with water and extra layers. The closest access to the trail from downtown was at the end of 6th street. I climbed a short series of stairs before entering into the woods. Small birds moved through the undergrowth, from branch to branch, and I stopped often to watch (and to catch my breath, it seems a month on the boat atrophied my lungs). A short hour later, I was at the tram. I stayed on the left trail and hiked until I came to a mother ptarmigan clucking to her chicks. The ground was damp and I put on all my layers as the evening cooled.

A parasailer jumped from a higher portion of the mountain and sailed overhead and over the side. The mother ptarmigan clucked to her chicks in the grass, who quietly chirped their replies. Not wanting to miss the final 9:30 tram, I left the quiet scene for home and an evening of packing.

Nervous about the logistics of leaving (who to stay with, how do I get to the ferry, will my truck start when I arrive in Haines, etc) I slept poorly, waking once in the middle of the night after a nightmare where a four-year-old was trying to strangle me. I guess there is some inner psychosis concerning my return to substitute teaching this fall.

At six thirty I arose, finished packing, and waited for Melissa and Andrew to arrive. Andrew had made plans with his wife, Melissa, and a co-worker, Jerrel to try for a summit of Mr. Olds. I was invited along, much to my excitement.

Two hours later, and after a sad goodbye to my parents, we were on our way up Perseverance Trail. We hiked for almost three miles before breaking off onto Granite Creek trail. The trail narrowed and started to gain elevation. 1.5 miles later, according to the weathered sign by the trail cut, we reached the basin. The boys, who were much more in shape than Melissa and myself, trotted ahead like mountain goats. We lagged behind, taking step after step, complaining of our sore knees.

But the pain was dimmed in comparison to the adventure. The valley’s lush growth of alder and salmonberry tickled our arms. As we got higher, the brush disappeared, leveling into short turfs of moss and alpine vegetation. The path became a game trail, made smooth by mountain goats and marmonts. Fog licked the mountain peaks, blurring the edges of the sky. Patches of winter snow leaned into the mountain, sloping and draining downward into cold creek beds.

My shoes were soon wet as I sank into mud and marsh in the basin. By the end of the trip, my feet had pruned in their soggy environment. As we continued to climb into the clouds, the ridgeline disappeared and reappeared with the shifting fog.

After an hour, Mt. Olds was still covered in fog. The boys planned on climbing Olds if the fog cleared (us girls were too tired), but as time went on we saw that it wasn’t going to clear and the danger factor was too high. We journeyed on, crossing snow fields, short valleys, and traversing rocky slopes. We paused to push boulders down into the valley, laughing as the 200 pound rock bounced and crashed. “What if that was your head?!” Melissa exclaimed, as we watched boulder complete its painful descent.

What indeed. “I would rather have my head bashed in right away instead of feeling every bone in my body get smashed up on the way down,” said Andrew. We, who had been careful before, became even more cautious. One slip, a misstep, a moment of lost balance, and any one of us could be tumbling down. Though a flight in a black hawk sounded appealing (for that’s what Juneau Mountain Rescue usually sent out to retrieve an injured or dead person) I did not want one of us to be the reason. Though the trail was merely an upward hike, I would have brought my mountaineering axe if it had been available due to some of the “sketchier” parts.

The summit of Mt. Juneau was always “just over this crest,” or “just a little farther.” We started to run into other hikers the closer we came to Mt. Juneau. There is a trailhead at the beginning of Perseverance for Mt. Juneau, but it is several thousand feet of vertical hiking. Though the way is shorter than accessing the summit via Granite Creek, it left hikers exhausted and worn out—and they still had 2/3 of a trip to go.

About fifteen years ago or more, a local Juneauite had tried, unsuccessfully, to build a tram from Mt. Roberts to Mt. Juneau. The story goes that just before he had enough money to finish the project, he died. A local Native corporation thought his idea had been a good idea and built the tram to Mt. Roberts, which is one of the more popular activities for tourists today. There are still remnants of his dream on Mt. Juneau; an old backhoe, several metal storage containers, a partially built building, and a steel cable hanging off the side of the mountain. We agreed that Mt. Juneau was a thousand times more beautiful than Roberts, but, as Andrew pointed out, more dangerous for tourists. Plus, the lack of a tram keeps Mt. Juneau a secret. A place accessible only to locals or those who have a full day to devote to hiking.

To our right we could see towards the Mendenhal Valley, the airport, and channel. To our left, downtown Juneau with its cruise ships and capital buildings. We donned our shells (windproof/rainproof jackets) and rested, taking in the world like a bird. Then we left, sliding, grabbing branches, down the steep trail back to the car.

Later that evening we went to Jarrel’s apartment for a dinner of halibut and apple pie. Our legs were screaming, and for the first time in a long time I curled in my sleeping bag and fell immediately to sleep.

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