"Alaska wants to kill you. It will try in a thousand different ways! " (Greg Jennen) Based on yesterday's experiences Greg has decided that the whole group will set out for the hunting grounds in one boat. We climb into one of the motorboats. Unfortunately the weather forecast deceived us. The clouds have come down and are pouring out their heavenly blessing in great abundance. We had already put on our Gore-Tex clothes while on the yacht, and in the boat we pull our hoods tight. With heads lowered we endure the rain being thrown in our faces by the wind as we go towards the shore. I can see in advance that this is not going to be an easy day.
We find the place where we landed yesterday to stalk bears. The landing procedure is the same and is done in several stages. Greg has also brought an inflatable dinghy with him.
It turns out that the small bay that we saw on our stalk yesterday is actually a separate lake. It is fresh water; it seems that these bears don't like sea fish. The lake is not connected to the sea despite being only 300ft. from the shore. But its shores reach right up to the foot of the mountain where the goats live. This is why Greg has brought along the inflatable. It is much easier to get to the mountain using that than by walking through the thickets along the shore. Randy is rowing ahead of us in the same kayak that he used yesterday after anchoring the motorboat. He carried the one-man kayak over the strip of land separating the lake from the sea on his head.
We start across the lake.
This boat trip will always be one of my fondest memories. The water in the lake is unbelievably clear and on the bottom, several feet below, I can clearly see rotting tree trunks and occasionally a dead fish. I ask Greg why they aren't floating on the surface but he doesn't know.
All the different types of vegetation found in the taiga are ranged along the shore, in every possible shade of green and brown. It is a typical northern forest, with no signs of human intrusion or influence. Moss hanging from branches, trees uprooted by storms, pines… the best part of a nature film brought to life right in front of my eyes. It is so Alaskan, so exactly like what I've been waiting to see that I can't get enough of it. I'd be happy to land right here so that I could examine each tree, touch the lichen and smell the scent of the bushes, but Greg promises me that I'll still be able to do all that later.
This lake is linked to another one by a 300ft channel. We go along it, rowing against the current; Greg is having to work harder... an oar strikes the bottom and, with a soft crack, it breaks. We
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struggle on much more slowly, using just one oar, but at least it gives me time to enjoy the scenery.
By the time we reach the opposite bank the rain has become much heavier.
After getting out of the boat Greg points to a ridge, or saddle, where we will set up our camp. It is right above us. We are just about to leave when we have an unpleasant surprise: Greg has left his boots behind on the yacht. He is only wearing knee-length rubber boots, and though they are suitable for a lot of things, mountain climbing isn't one of them. There is no alternative; he must return in the kayak to the motorboat, and then to the ship to collect them. This is bad news because the delay means that the one-day hunt that we'd hoped for, especially considering the weather, is now impossible. We are definitely going to have to spend a night here.
While we wait for Greg, we watch the rain and the landscape.
The moment he gets back we grab our climbing irons. Yes, we're going to need them, even though there isn't any ice or snow. The ever-wet moss and grass make the mountainside, steep as a wall, so slippery that without our crampons we wouldn't get anywhere. I am using small ones as they are lightest. Slovak mountaineers refer to this type of miniature climbing iron as macski. It is not really suitable for climbing on ice but it keeps your boots steady on frozen ground.
It is the beginning of a brutal stuggle.
We are faced with a series of obstacles out of which just one would be one too many. I won't forget this climb as long as I live. Because it is, quite literally, a climb. We are fighting Alaska with our our hands and feet, tooth and nail.
We must get through undergrowth so dense, even a bulldozer would be defeated. We have to climb over fallen trees that are rotting away. We clamber through thickets higher than our waists, we can't tell where we are stepping. The bushes tear at our clothes, their branches clutch at our legs. Everything is wet and thorns stick into us.
And it is raining.
It gets colder and colder.
We mount the slopes.
My situation is worst as my climbing irons don't have hooks on their tips. I can't get a proper grip on the moss. I slip, grab at something, and even through my gloves I can feel the thorns. I fall, I get up and go on. I am soaked by the rain from above and by the bushes from below.
The wind is getting stronger.
Every 300ft. we must cross a creek or stream. No path, no bridge. We have to wade through. We grasp at the bushes overhanging the banks to try and keep our balance. Then we come to a
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creek that has no place to ford. We try but we fail. We sink up to our knees in icy water. It is squelching in my boots.
We keep on climbing.
Clenching our jaws and baring our teeth, dripping wet.
R. is hindering me more and more. He is not used to this sort of struggle and we are constantly having to wait for him. During these forced rests our clothes, wet by the rain from outside and our sweat from inside, almost freeze to our bodies.
We still can't find anywhere to cross, we can only go higher by following the creek. I take two steps and lose my footing: a rock has rolled from under my climbing irons… I fal down flat, into the icy water.
There is no going back. It's too late for a change of mind. We keep on climbing.
The worst is the sliding back. I go a couple of feet, the ground slips beneath my boots, and back I slide. The bushes hit my eyes. While I slip, the wet mud underneath my feet gets into my face. It happens at least four times. We are fighting to climb each inch. Our boots sink deep into wet moss.
The weather is getting worse and worse. The rain is pouring down. This is ice-cold Alaskan rain, which gets everywhere. And it is aided by its good friend, the wind. The pair of them are torturing us four hunters. And the plants, the gradient, the rocks and the mud, all are helping them.
And the cold.
The cold, which is getting even colder; I've never felt such cold before. The cold is the final straw.
It is the cold which magically changes the rain to ice. It is the cold which chills the creeks, the wind, and our bodies. I hate this cold.
During one break I have a dreadful suspicion… I open my rucksack. And yes: for the first time in my life I have not packed my sleeping bag in a plastic bag. Despite all my mountain hiking, I forgot this basic rule. Any experienced mountain hiker knows that there is no such thing as a waterproof rucksack, it's just advertising jargon. This was a fatal mistake indeed! Because you can endure the cold all day, the wet clothes, the water squelching in your boots and the wind snatching every bit of heat from your body. But if your body can't get warm at night, being fit is no help at all. It is a direct route to hypothermia (very low body temperature). To make things worse, my sleeping bag isn't even warm enough for these conditions anyway. I wrote to Petra, Greg's wife, saying I would like to borrow a liner, which will increase the survival-range of any sleeping bag. She promised me one, but her instructions must have got lost because there wasn't one on board the yacht. So here I am, in soaking clothes and with a sleeping bag which is not only not
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warm enough, but is completely sodden! And the temperature keeps dropping! This could be a serious problem. A very serious problem.
I tell Greg. He says I should keep going. We'll manage somehow.
So we keep on climbing.
We come to the end of the thickets; there are no woody plants growing beyond here. It might have made our progress easier but, unfortunately, it doesn't: now there's nothing to hold on to.
There are some parts, rises and small peaks, where we just can't get any higher because of the slippery ground. Several times Greg has to go forward using his ice-pick; it is the only way he can determine our route. He will either succeed or fail. We wait behind, turning our backs to the wind, staring at the wet grass from under the peaks of our hoods. If Greg can't find a suitable route straight away we must just keep waiting until he does.
It is still pouring with rain.
We have to shout to be heard; our words are snatched away by the wind. When I ask Greg his opinion about the weather, the mountain and our general situation he replies: - Bad. Very bad.
Above us is a flight path coming from Anchorage. We can often hear the engine-roar of the long-distance passenger jets. The passengers sitting in business class are probably sipping their first glass of champagne after take-off. They will be looking out of the window with dismay: - Oh, honey, what a shame it's so overcast! We can't see the beautiful landscape!
They won't guess that thousands of feet below them, in that beautiful landscape, there are four -
or rather 3.5 - hunters waging a war against Alaska at that very moment.
And their chances aren't looking too good.
R. can't keep going. He is relieved of his bags, one by one. Now the only thing he has to carry is himself,but he can't even do that. He keeps mentioning his age, which is starting to get irritating.
There are several people much older than he is successfully hunting in the mountains, and there are countless others who run marathons at his age. The truth is that he is unfit; he has not been to any trainings. He can't deny the fact. To make it worse, he is also unprepared mentally. Even on the gentlest slopes he has to stop and rest. He always waits to be helped, looking for sympathy from one of us. I'm sorry to have to write this, but R. is not a worthy fellow-hunter. It is a major disappointment because his gun and equipment all suggest great experience.
Greg, who is the most experienced mountain guide in Alaska, has his own method for dealing with these situations. He starts to hum the theme tune from Stallone's Rocky to himself, trying to borrow some of Rocky's strength. The rest of us have learnt his secret too, so now the famous tune can be heard issuing from all the exhausted throats of the ragged line of hunters.
We descend into a smal ravine… a stone slips from beneath my foot, I lose my balance... I get to the bottom on my back, bouncing along on my rucksack. I even roll over once, adding to my
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already countless bruises. In my rucksack I can hear either my gun, or the rifle scope, bashing against the rocks. If this doesn't ruin the gun's settings, nothing will. I remain lying on my back for a couple of seconds, trying to pull myself together. Greg looks back, but as neither my arms or legs seem to be broken, he goes on. This expedition is pure hell.
We finally reach the saddle.
Well, I've been to quite a few mountain camps in my time, but I've never seen anything as miserable as this. There's just enough room to pitch two tents, but the ground is completely waterlogged. The water drains into here from the two peaks either side of the saddle. We sink up to our ankles in the muddy ground; we have to put up our tents in this marsh. But it is the only level piece of ground around; the camp must be here or nowhere. The tents are small, barely big enough for two people. There will be no space for our guns; we'll have to leave them outside in the rain, along with our rucksacks.
We start to make camp.
While we do it, I discuss my fall with Randy, and my worries that the settings on my gun will have altered. He has brought his .325 caliber WSM rifle along, which I have seen already at Brooks Range. On it he has a tactical Leupold rifle scope, developed for long range precision shooting, with a reticle and ballistic compensator turret made specially for him. The gradations on the turret have been made specifically to function on Randy's gun. When he placed his order, he sent the company his own data on the bullet's speed, with the height above sea-level and temperature at the time, rather than relying on the information supplied by the gun makers. So when he measures distance, he doesn’t need to count the clicks on the turret, he simply adjusts it until the indicator reaches the figure shown on the engraved side of the distance recorder. The manufacturers have done a good job and the bullet always strikes where the turret says it will. I like this professional attitude, it shows that Randy takes his shooting seriously. So we agree that I can use it for a shot at my goat - if we can manage to find one. If I miss with the first shot and the goat - or as it is called here, a billy - changes its position, I will then choose which gun to continue with. I will have to decide if the fault lies with me, or my gun's settings. I've no doubt that Randy's Kimber is accurately set, but, unfortunately, what is accurate to within a hair's breadth for one hunter might not be so precise for another. But we can't come up with a better solution; to try and reset my Blaser under these extreme conditions would be impossible. We're just pleased to be alive.
R. is about to die. Shivering, I take off my wet clothes. I inflate my mattress and climb into my dripping sleeping bag. What on earth am I doing here?
It is very cold.
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On Board the Ruffinit