I don't know why, but the hotel has given me two breakfast tickets for each day that I'm here. Perhaps they're trying to compensate for starving me last night. So, today, I'm inviting my new guide, Amanda Tuttle, to join me for breakfast. Amanda is slim, blonde, athletic, worked-out, beautiful girl. I'd have a big problem if I had to decide who is the prettiest: her, or the wolf-training girl from the Anchorage Zoo.
I definitely make up for my lack of dinner last night - I just can't leave that subject alone - and then we set off for our hike.
I haven't been given any details about today's hike, and so I am not wearing my professional-technical clothing. I thought we'd take a walk around the area, and perhaps visit a study-path, or maybe a museum.
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But this is not what happened.
Ingnoring whatever the original plans were, Amanda has decided that we will go to the top of Mt.
Alyeska, which is right behind my hotel. I've just seen it this morning, as my room is facing that direction. Even though there are several cable-cars - I don't know how many exactly, perhaps four or six - we decide to walk. Amanda thinks that a little training-session before my mountain hunting will be good for me. The path begins on a gently rising road, bulldozed through the forest, but, after half a mile, it starts to get tough. Luckily, I'm only carrying a small pack, because Amanda is in fantastic shape, tirelessly striding forward, and setting a pace I find difficult to match. I'm trying my best, as it wouldn't look good to get left behind. I'm pouring with sweat, and starting to regret that I'm not wearing the proper clothing. My cotton T-shirt actual y traps the moisture and it won‟t evaporate; I'm feeling very uncomfortable, but I still keep up.
Within an hour and a half, we have completed a 2500 ft. climb. The hike was made harder by the path's unforgiving nature, which, rather than winding gently, tended to go sharply upwards. At the top, however, the view is fantastic, and, what's more, waiting for me in the cafe is a huge, well-deserved, ice-cold bottle of Gatorade.
To get down we take a closed-cabin cable-car, and so I'm back in my room by 11.00. After a quick shower I head off for the jacuzzi, but I can't bear it for long, as the water is too hot for me.
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At 1.15 I'm back in the lounge, where another Amanda is waiting to drive me to Girdwood Airport.
Exciting things lie ahead.
We're going to take a helicopter up to a glacier, where we will be given a lesson in the tricks of driving a dog-sled, after which we'll all have a try. I've never been in a helicopter, so I view the tiny, red machine with a healthy mix of anxiety and worry. The pilot is a German guy - he once had a Hungarian girlfriend - and we share a laugh over his memories of Budapest. The helicopter, apparently, is brand new, and he begs us to take care not to scratch the delicate plexiglass with our cameras! We get in, the pilot speeds up the rotors, and we are already airborne!
It's a fantastic feeling!
The great thing about a helicopter is that, unlike the side-to-side view in an aeroplane, here you can see all around. It gives flying a brand new perspective. The pilot makes the machine ascend, and we speed off towards the mountains; my ears start to pop. He is definitely not easily scared, as when we reach the mountain ridge we fly so low over it, that, if I reached out, I could touch the rocks. Beyond the ridge I see the surface of the glacier, lying in an eternal empire of ice. Standing on the ice are three tents, comprising the sled-drivers' base. The view looks like an advertisement for a polar
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expedition. I just wish it wasn't so hot. It's a real heat-wave; not just an Alaskan one, but one that would be considered hot anywhere. In the sun the temperature must be over 85 F, and my warm jacket is feeling a bit of a burden. This morning Amanda had mentioned that this summer was the hottest so far in Alaska, while last year's was the coldest.
The helicopter gently lands on the snow, like a giant dragonfly, and we get out.
We are welcomed by two young men with broad grins, and deep tans from the blinding reflections of the glacier. They will be our hosts during our brief stay: the Lords of the Glacier, the drivers of the dogs. One of them is from Colorado, and tells us he is a keen hunter, and becomes very enthusiastic when he hears the purpose of my journey. We are all wearing dark glasses, as the fun of sledding on a glacier would be spoilt by that constant nightmare for polar explorers, which will creep up unawares: snow-blindness.
It's a sneaky condition as the first symptoms do not appear until 8 - 12 hours after the cornea has already been damaged, and the result is severe pain. The clear air does not filter out the the sun's UV
rays, which, reflected by all the snow, burn the cornea, causing serious injury. Captain Scott, who died a hero‟s death while exploring the South Pole, wrote in his diary that not only his men, but even his dogs, suffered from snow-blindness. The danger increases with altitude, as the strength of UV rays rises, on average, 5% for every 1000ft. Most mountaineers are prepared for this, and wear special glasses that also protect from the sides; the better-prepared mountain hunters follow their example.
It's a little-known fact that the eye is more vulnerable during overcast conditions, so at high altitudes wise mountaineers protect themselves even when it is cloudy.
The dogs - there are about fifty of them - are housed in individual kennels, little plastic bunkers. They fix a bucket of water to the outside of each kennel,so that when the dog gets thirsty, it won't lick the snow. This is because, being on short chains, when nature calls, the dogs have to use the area immediately around them, and the icy snow of the glacier conveniently absorbs everything. Even though the chains are long enough enough for them to socialise with each other, fights are unknown.
Our drivers start to tell us about the construction and use of the sledges. Firstly, the driver stands at the back. Somebody else stands in front of him, and this person plays an important part in steering, as he can determine the sledge's center of gravity better than the driver at the rear. I choose this position. There's a comfortable seat at the front, and whoever gets this has nothing more to do than enjoy the view. Before we go on with the practical side, I just want to describe a very important event: the annual meeting of the Alaskan Sled Drivers.
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There is a competition held in Alaska.
This is a competition for dog-sleds, and in the last few decades has become world-famous, achieving legendary status.
It is a competition worthy of bearing the name : The Last Great Race in the World.
This competition has difficulties which the average person cannot even conceive.
It's a challenge, and an adventure, to which nothing else in the world can be compared.
The Iditarod.
It pushes both the competitor, and the dogs, to their physical and mental limits.
Participants have to cover about 1000 hazardous miles, through the most hostile country imaginable.
Over high mountains, frozen rivers, barren tundras, windswept shores, and through the thickest forests, where the driver and dogs have no-one to rely on but each other. Add to this unbelievable cold; wind and snowstorms - which can reduce visibility to zero - the constant threat of total exhaustion and hypothermia; long, solitary hours of complete darkness standing on the sled; merciless hills and treacherous slopes; hunger, and a body that aches all over: this is the Iditarod!
It's a race that requires the very best of the qualities of the early Alaskan pioneers from each participant, and could not take place anywhere else in the world.
It starts in Anchorage, and ends in the town of Nome on the Seward Peninsula, on the west coast, and is one of the main attractions of the Alaskan calendar, generating huge media coverage around the world.
The competitors are international and from all levels of society, and the race is organized by thousands of volunteers who supervise the proceedings from five headquarters: Anchorage, Fairbanks, Juneau, Nome and Wasilla.
It is said, and not without justification, that the Iditarod is more than just a race - it's a commemoration.
It provides a link to the past, to Alaska's heroic age, a time when the inhabitants could not rely on any outside help… The Iditarod's route - now called the National Historic Route - has, from its very beginning, provided the link between the Seward Peninsula and the southern coastal settlements.
Gold from the west was brought along this trail, and it was the main supply route for the gold prospector's camps. All traffic took place on dog-sleds, in the most extreme conditions. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries this trail created not a few heroes and legends.
In 1925 the town of Nome was struck by a devastating diptheria epidemic, and no medicine was available. Once more the community looked to the famous drivers, and their faithful dogs, for help.
And the drivers - the best in Alaska - did not let them down: they fetched the medicine, and, by doing so, immortalised themselves. The world began to learn about, and to respect, these excellent men and their dogs.
This crazy race is run in memory of those wonderful drivers and their dogs.
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The trail changes from year to year.
One year it will go along the Northern Route (through Cripple, Ruby and Galena), and the next it switches to the Southern Route (through Shageluk and Anvil). It's no exaggeration to say that just about everybody who lives in a settlement near, or on, the route, takes part in its organisation. In this part of the world it's every child's dream to take part in the race when they grow up.
Several years ago, a group of somewhat deluded animal-rights campaigners tried to have the race banned, on the grounds that the ordeal was cruel to the dogs. The drivers were so incensed by this nonsense, that without even holding a debate, they unanimously declared all the objecters to be idiots.
And they were most probably right.
It's true that there is a huge mental and physical burden placed on the dogs, and for this very reason they cannot be forced to do it. They want to do it. At the start, and after each rest, the dogs, which are in the very peak of mental and physical health, are all impatiently straining to continue. They pull at the harness again and again, and can hardly wait to set off. Often the drivers do not need to give any encouragement, but have to restrain them, to avoid their early exhaustion. These dogs were bred for the Iditarod, and if they can't pull sleds they start to get depressed. Twelve to sixteen dogs will cover the distance in ten to seventeen days, and whoever thinks that the fastest sled will always win the competition, is wrong. At the start of the race the speed of each sled is almost the same.
The Iditarod is a race of intelligence.
Each competitor has his own complex and secret tactics, and the race will be won by the person who best adapts his plans to the conditions and other variables of that year.
The composition of the dogs' food, the maintenance of the health of dogs and driver, the length and frequency of the rest periods, the chosen speeds over certain stretches, the preservation of the dogs'
morale and being able to judge accurately the minimum weight and volume of equipment needed, are just some of the many decisions that must be correctly made to ensure victory.
The driver must combine all these factors with the dogs' training and his own abilities, and must always be prepared to adapt his carefully thought-out tactics to unexpected circumstances. He also has to bear the burden of knowing that at certain times, other competitors, using different methods, will have a lead over him. They are constantly having to make exactly the right decision, which is not an easy thing to do during 7 - 8 exhausting and stressful days spent in the Alaskan wilderness. It's also important for a competitor to employ psychology as a weapon against his rivals; once of the basic, unwritten rules of the Iditarod is to force your rival into making a mistake. The intention throughout the race should be that your maneuvres appear unintelligible, incomprehensible and
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unpredictable to your fellow competitors. This can put so much pressure on your rival, that he will be forced, unwisely, to change his own carefully planned tactics, and if he does, there is a good chance that he will lose the race.
But the winner takes all.
A lot of money, cars, and countless offers of sponsorship; but above all Glory. Because, throughout the whole of Alaska, the winner will enjoy the unprecedented respect of his peers.
He will become a national hero, be placed on a pedestal by his fellow Alaskans, and his name will go down in Alaskan history. But all competitors will be acknowledged, and each will receive the coveted belt buckle, honoring their participation.
Andy and his team regularly help to organize the Iditarod.
They follow the competitors on motorised sleds, and so become part of the great adventure themselves. One year their presence proved particularly useful. That year the Discovery Channel, my favorite, was shooting an exciting, and very interesting, 6-part series about the Iditarod. In the series they apparently forgot to mention that the staff helicopter had crashed in a place called Dalzell Gorge.
A rescue operation was mounted at once, and the rescue team, led by Andy,finally found them and brought them back to safety.
The sled belonging to the Colorado hunter is ready to go; the command to start is a loud "OK", and they're off. There are no squabbles amongst the dogs pulling the sled; the only miserable ones are those still chained up, and they lunge enviously after their companions. We travel at a moderate speed, as our dogs have just woken up. After 300 ft. we stop. It's almost getting hot on the glacier, and the dogs aren't used to it. As their bodies are heating up too quickly, we must not drive them too hard. It'll take a few minutes for them to cool down, so we now have some time to look around the glacier.
The weather is perfect, and everything glistens.
There's not a cloud in the sky. The sun is so strong that I dare not take my glasses off, just for a test, even for a short time. The light is very intense, and it's so hot that I feel like taking off the waterproof pants that the organizers have given me.
We go on. I'm beginning to get the hang of it, when and where I have to lean to keep the sled stable, and I feel that the dogs and I are moving as one. The animals are going at a comfortable trot, but their mood seems to drop when we come to a small hill.
The dogs have developed a special procedure in case nature calls when they are on the move. The sled can't stop for each dog, so the dog must work things out for itself. It spreads its hind-legs, using its protective shoes as skis, while continuing to run with its forelegs. then, as it is being towed by its
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companions, the dog can relieve itself. I'm laughing so hard, I almost fall of the sledge.
At the top of the hill we take another rest, during which our driver talks about the construction of the sled. In the dog team each animal has its own place and job. The animals cannot be randomly moved around within the team; each one is picked for its position on the basis of its particular abilities. They work as a team, but the first pair, the leaders, have the most important task: they must dictate the pace for the others,and - following their driver's orders - the direction to take. As I've already said, they are all docile and friendly, and can be stroked without worry. Some are obviously timid, moving away from an outstretched hand, and our driver tells us that very often these dogs are the best workers.
Now that we are going downhill the dogs are happier, and we have to put the brakes on the sled. This time I'm doing it, as I'm now in the rear position.
I have become a driver!
The dogs have no trouble with my strong accent, and obey each command. We are whizzing along!
By the time we get back to the camp with its plastic kennels, we have made a huge circle over the glacier.
At the camp I notice a motorised sled, used for doing jobs around the place. As our helicopter is late arriving, our hosts take each of us for a ride on the powerful machine; it speeds along so fast, even up steep hills, that I can hardly manage to hold on. My driver is happy to go even faster. These guys are completely crazy, living alone up here on the glacier, with absolutely no washing facilities. They leave once a week to go back to civilization, and between each visit they just have to put up with each other's smell.
A red dot appears over the mountain ridge, and, gradually, the noise increases. On the way back, I sit in the front, beside the German Pilot. It's a scary experience, if you're not used to it. The machine flies low, following the contours of the ridge, and, suddenly the view opens up, and beneath us the ground drops from a few feet to several hundred. Your instincts tell you that you're going to tumble into a bottomless abyss. It takes a moment or two to realise that the pilot is in complete control, but you still feel slightly anxious.
After landing, there's no time to reflect on the trip; Andy is waiting for us at the airport, and we set off for our next location at once.
Before we get there, we stop off at Andy's office; his headquarters are based in this town. Here I am reunited with my Peli 1200 ammunition case, which I had given them, together with my gun, the day I arrived, asking them to somehow get them all delivered to Fairbanks.
Both of the Peli locks on the case are missing.
It's not clear what has happened. They were there when I gave it to Andy. He says they weren't. The
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locks are irretrievably lost, but all the ammunition is intact. As Comrade Pelican, in the satirical Hungarian movie "The Witness", would say: "For the life of me, I just don't understand it!"
This is all very embarrassing, as it was Frank who insisted that I put the ammunition in a separate, locked case, to meet the requirements of some of the domestic airlines. I'll have to sort it out.
Bad news never comes alone: my gun has not arrived in Fairbanks, and nobody knows where it is.
The conscientious Andy, when he arranged for my gun to be sent to Fairbanks, did not take a lot of trouble over it: he just put it in the mail. Over here it's completely normal, and legal, and not at all unusual to do that. Here people regularly mail guns to each other from state to state.
Near Girdwood the is a goldmine still operating, and this is where we're about to go.
"Even Hell can‟t be worse than this. I'l risk it. "
(Words spoken by an unknown gold-prospector, who later killed himself.) Travelling around Alaska, sooner or later - but generally sooner than later - you will come across the remains of old mines, which nowadays are, along with the anecdotes and stories from the time, just memorials to the gold-rush of the late nineteenth century.
The name Alaska, even today, viewed from a perspective of a hundred years, is still closely associated with gold. It was the gold-rush that made the state world famous,and gold still remains an important symbol of the state, even being incorporated into the flag. So, it's time to give a short outline of what really happened, the great discoveries, and what the famous Alaskan gold-rush was all about!
An unusual feature of the gold-rush was that it began in the Canadian province of Yukon, about fifty to sixty miles from the Alaskan border. It's still referred to as "Alaskan" as the original discovery was made by Alaskans, and the majority of the later prospectors - gold miners - were American citizens.
Also, most of the trails to the mines ran through Alaska.
For us hunters, the Yukon River conjures up images of a hunting paradise; but it was not always so.
This river valley was once the center of the most hysterical gold-fever in history.
The whole length of the river, including its tributaries, extends for almost 330,000 miles(!), and even today there are many parts that have not been thoroughly explored.
The source of the river is in Canada, and after crossing the border it cuts Alaska in two; it is now, and always has been, the state's main shipping route. The Yukon River itself is 2300 miles long. It is so long that the early settlers did not know that the trading centers of Fort Yukon and Fort Selkirk were on the same river; because of the huge distances involved, for many years they thought that there were two separate rivers.
Contrary to popular belief, gold had been found in Alaska and the Yukon long before the gold-rush
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began; in 1880, near the then Alaskan capital of Juno,in the area known as Panhandle; and even earlier, during the period of Russian ownership, under the rule of the all-powerful Baranov, a large quantity had been mined. But Baranov did not want to draw too much attention to his little kingdom, and had the apparently fortunate prospector executed for safety's sake.
Between 1870 and 1880, prospectors, constantly on the search for new seams, reached, and began to partially explore, the Yukon region. One of the first treasure-hunters, Arthur Harper, reached the Yukon in 1873 and spent twenty-three years prospecting in the region, with very little success. In 1878
George Molt, managing to evade the vigilant Chilkoot sentries, over 3000 of them, became the first white man to cross the then unexplored Chilkoot Pass, later to become part of the Alaskan/Canadian border. This was another step in the search to find the source of the Yukon River. This pass was to become one of the most important routes for prospectors, and its name is entwined in the history of the gold-rush. At the time of the greatest activity, ten years after Molt's arrival, around 10,000 men had crossed the pass, with its gradients of thirty five degrees, and covering of ice for eight months of the year.
Despite these efforts, which should not be underestimated, only small pockets of gold were occasionally found, just enough to keep the miners from starving; and sometimes, not even that.
Before the arrival of the miners, fur-trappers had already set up trading-stations within the area, making further exploration of the more remote parts easier to carry out. In 1886, at the mouth of the Stewart River, gold valued at $10,000 was found - and the dollar was at that time of a much higher value - and then, at Fortymille River, an even more promising sample was dredged up. As a result, large crowds arrived at the town of Fortymille, turning it into the first gold-rush city of Alaska.
The lives of the Fortymille miners were governed by strict rules and regulations. There were no official authorities in the area, and so it was left to an assembly of miners to deliver the verdicts in criminal cases. According to the local customs of the time, if a man ordered a drink in any one of the ten bars in the town, etiquette obliged him to buy a drink for every other person present, even if he ended up spending over $100. It was all paid for in gold dust, and while the barman weighed it out, the customer would ostentatiously turn his back, disdaining to oversee the transaction; showing equal trust, trading-stations would often provide unlimited and unsecured loans to any prospector, and there are no known cases of anybody not getting their money back.
A strong bond kept the community together; they all looked after each other, and no-one ever starved to death. If a prospector struck gold, he was supposed to share the news with the whole community -
keeping your gold-strike secret was not a characte