Close to the Edge

In Alaska, death lies closer than in other places.  The longer you live here, the more likely you are to know someone who perished in a fishing accident, a lost plane, or fell through the ice.  Partly it’s the risk of working and recreating in the wilderness.  Partly it’s that specialized medical care is a jet ride away.  But it’s also that our social circles are more tightly woven into those of others up here.  In our small towns and even the larger ones, death’s latest visit will eventually ripple it’s way through the community’s webbing into your family or friendships.

Lately, death has moved much too close to my neighborhood, taking my friend John three years ago and my wife’s friend Ali over a year ago.  And death left behind four young children, two without a father and two without a mother.   It’s hard not to see John’s son and not think about what Ferguson’s world would be like without me.  But rather than hide from the wilderness and sink into the soft confines of my couch, my reaction to death’s proximity has been to try to experience as much of this life I can with the days that I have left, not knowing which one will be my last.

And so I’ve expanded my list of hobbies in the last few years, which now includes backyard chicken farming, ocean swimming, deer hunting, skate skiing, backcountry skiing, downhill skiing, salmon fishing, hiking, and unicycling.  My wife now says I have too many.  How could I ever have too many?   My goal is to master none, but inquire into each activity and learn the lessons it has to teach.

So as I approached my 40^th birthday, my thoughts of mortality took even greater shape in my head.  But again, instead of shrinking back to a simple black birthday cake or a predictable mid-life crisis, I decided I need to embrace the last days of my 40^th year with some vigorous outdoor adventure. The spring before John died we had discussed a strenuous hike back in the mountains behind Juneau, to watch the sun rise above Canada.  But our plans remained just talk and I have continued to regret never actualizing our plans.

Ever since coming to Juneau 17 years ago, I’ve been fascinated by the Juneau Icefield.  It’s a continental icesheet that stretches 20? miles behind Juneau to Canada and lurches 50 miles up to Skagway.  You can see a few signs of the icefield in the glaciers that flow off of it towards the road system, the Lemon, Mendenhall, Eagle and Herbert.  But it remains a mystery to most Juneauites, silently crouching behind our landmark peaks.   Every once in a while you’ll get lucky and glimpse the icefield during a takeoff or landing from Juneau International, but mostly it’s unknown, untraveled, unblemished by the tracks of man. 

Death Valley, Juneau Icefield

I remember learning about the icefield during my first summer and wanting to go see it.  I blithely asked a Forest Service ranger if I could hike up to it on the West Glacier Trail and he laughed at me like the inexperienced Louisiana boy that I was.  He said I would need some crampons and an ice axe but yes I could go that way, but the better way was up Blackerby Ridge and beyond. In the last 17 years I’ve hiked up Blackerby Ridge, but I never had the follow-through to hike all the way back in.

So my close friend Jason and I made a plan to go to the icefield before I turned 40.  Jason is an experienced skier and mountain climber who had traversed the icefield before and climbed many glacier strewn peaks.  We would helicopter in on a Thursday and hike out on Sunday. The plan was to make a base camp for three nights and do some backcountry skiing on nearby slopes.  Our friend Mike recommended a spot near Amherst and Spencer Peaks.  So that’s where we planned to go.  We’d camp out there, make a few runs, and then ski out the Nugget Glacier and Nugget Creek valley, walking out the East Glacier Trail.

Amherst Peak on the Juneau Icefield

The week before we left both of us were busy with work.  We talked a few times on the phone to plan for the trip.  But we didn’t really have time to talk details.  We never talked about the potential risks of our trip or how we might prepare for them.  Early in the week, Jason heard a long term weather forecast that indicated our recent dry spell was coming to an end and that we could expect wetter than normal weather during  this usually dry time of the year.

During the week, Jason asked if we could invite a young co-worker to go with us.  I asked if it was safer with three and Jason said it really didn’t make much of a difference.  I was looking forward to some bonding time with Jason and didn’t really want a stranger in the group so I said we should keep it to just the two of us.

On Thursday, the weather was squally with passing rainshowers coming through town.  We were supposed to leave at four pm on the helicopter.  Around two pm the helicopter company called to cancel the trip due to weather.  That night Jason and I discussed whether we should go the next day instead.  I looked at my family calendar and realized that this was the only weekend I could go this year.  Jason was hesitant with the weather forecast for rain over the weekend, but he agreed to go since this was my only chance.  Looking back, I should have noted the hesitancy in his voice and asked what the weather forecast meant.  I didn’t realize that the rain down at sea level would mean snow on the icefield and thus increase the avalanche danger for our exit journey.

I woke up the next morning and was excited to see the blue skies.  Jason and I touched base on the phone and agreed that we would meet at Coastal Helicopters to catch the chopper at nine am.   We had thought it would cost $500 but when Jason paid it turned out to be only $350.  We boarded the chopper with our pilot Justin and another pilot in training (likely the reason for the discount).  As we flew up the valleys leading to the icefield the weather got increasingly cloudy.  We circled the area we had hoped to camp in and got somewhat confused by where the pilot was telling us we were.  We agreed to land in a spot north of Spencer Peak, a ways from where we had planned to camp, but closer to our exit route.  We landed near an outcropping of rock in an area above Suicide Falls, which leads to the Mendenhall Glacier.  Nearby we could see Death Valley, which was a large expanse of glacier that we would have to cross to reach our exit route on Nugget Glacier.

The chopper flew off and we donned our backpacks.  Mine clocked in at over 60 pounds.  I had never skied with that heavy of a pack before.  We skied towards Death Valley in search of a campsite.  I suggested camping on a ridge with a view looking down into the valley.  I should have seen the streaks of windswept snow and realized we were choosing a windy spot.  But we took off our packs and skis there and got the tent set up.  Then it was time for a quick run up the nearest hillside.  As we climbed with our skins on, we headed for a rocky outcropping we could see from below.  We lost sight of it for a while behind a snowy ridge.  By the time we reached it, it had started to snow.  Close to the rock now, we could see that it was really a tall rocky notch cut into the slope of the mountain we were on.  Looking down into it and seeing the snow blowing dizzily below made me realize just how exposed our position now was at around 5,000 feet.  We got near the top of this mountain and decided to ski down instead of exploring the ridge that continued eastward.  Soon both of us were experiencing vertigo in the near blowing snow and fog.  By the time we reached our tent, we were in a total whiteout with the snow coming down and wind blowing.  Then we realized the poor choice of campsite we had made.  But instead of doing all the work to move our campsite, we chose to create a higher snow wall around our tent to keep the winddrift from blowing under our tent and melting into water.

After building the walls we had lunch and it seemed like time for a nap.   But there’s only so long you can stay inside a two person tent.  So we got out with the idea of skiing around camp to get ourselves moving a little.  We donned our backcountry skis like Nordic skis and skied out as far as we could while still seeing the tent.  We went out along the ridge that then dropped down into Death Valley.  And when we could barely make out the tent behind us in the blowing snow, we turned back and traveled back to the tent.  We continued this until it seemed like time for dinner.  After dinner, we turned in for some tent reading and bedtime.

Unfortunately neither of us got much sleep that night.  Jason started talking about the increased avalanche danger due to all the snow we were getting.  It seemed like we had already gotten six inches that day.  And it just kept snowing, and blowing, and snowing hard, all through the night.  It probably didn’t help my frame of mind to read the Snows of Kilimanjaro before retiring for the night, where a man spends his last moments alive in Africa after coming down with gangrene.  All I could think about was how scared I was of dying in an avalanche and how much I wanted to return to my wife and children.

We agreed that we would ski out Saturday instead of Sunday because the forecast was for more rain at sea level on Sunday, which meant snow up where we were.  With each additional snowfall, the avalanche danger just kept getting worse.  So on Saturday morning, we left the tent at 4:30 am, had a cold breakfast of bagels, cream cheese and nutella, with cold steeped tea.  We broke camp and were off by 5:30.  We had to dig the sides of our tent out from under the snow.  It looked like it had snowed a foot and a half since we set up camp the day before.

Our plan was to ski down the slope off the ridge we were on into Death Valley and then ski across Death Valley, and up and over into the Nugget Glacier valley.  We hoisted our packs and set off across the ridge to explore a route down.  Then we noticed the large cornices that were right below our campsite and down the ridge further towards Spencer Peak.  In the middle, it looked like a gentle slope down with no cornices.  Before choosing a path down, Jason set off ahead to do a little exploring of the terrain.  Suddenly, when he was about 15 yards in front of me, Jason disappeared.  I was stunned.  Had he just fallen over and lost his balance with the large packs we were carrying? No, my worst fears were true.  After yelling at him and asking if he was okay, he said no, he had fallen into a crevasse and I had to come help him.

I didn’t know what to do.  So I yelled at him to ask what to do and where I could walk.  I took off my skis, dropped my backpack and started making my way towards him.  I was unsure of where the crevasse started and worried about falling through the snow myself.  So I crawled on my hands and knees over to him, below the crevasse.  He said I had to dig him out.  I crawled back to my pack and got the snow shovel.  Under his direction, I started to shovel down the lower lip of the crevasse, which was accumulated snow.  As I looked over the edge of the crevasse to Jason my stomach sank.  He was perched on a ledge about 15 feet down the crevasse.  But below him it just went on and on, probably 50 feet down into the darkness.  I was so scared.  And I felt weak.  I started shoveling and didn’t know if I could dig fast enough.  That surge of adrenaline that was supposed to give me strength and clarity never came.  I felt lost and thirsty and I doubted my abilities.  Somehow Jason managed to get both of his skis off and his pack from down in the hole.  As he lifted his skis to me and then his heavy pack, I concentrated with all my mental efforts on getting a good grip.  I knew that if I somehow lost my hold on the pack, it’s fall would topple Jason back into the crevasse to his certain death.

I managed to get the lip of the crevasse down about five feet and then Jason instructed me to bring him my ice axe.  I went back to my pack and realized it and my skis were in exactly the wrong place – directly in line with Jason along the fault line of the crevasse.  Again I army crawled back to him with the ice axe and he was able to use my ice axe and his to climb up out of the crack.  When he reached the top all I could say was “Oh thank God!” 

During the rescue I had quickly realized that if I didn’t get Jason out of the crevasse, that I would surely perish with him.  He had the GPS and the skills of how to navigate off the icefield to safety.  I had the VHF radio, but I was pretty sure it wouldn’t reach the Coast Guard from there.  Clearly I was in way over my head.  Jason calm and collected though.  Had our places been switched, I’m pretty sure I would have been crying like a baby down in that crack.

We quickly decided the safest alternative was to rope up and walk down the slope to the valley floor.  We didn’t know what other bergschrunds we would encounter on the way down.  After a few hundred yards, the slope became gentle and we donned our skis, staying roped up, and skied down and across Death Valley.

Luckily the skies were clearing that day. I finally got some glimpses of what I had wanted to experience - the wide expanse of a continental ice field  undulating off towards distant nunataks and rocky ridges.  The clouds drifted in and out that day but we were able to get some glimpses of this magical white land that I hope to never forget.

Across the valley, we consulted our map and GPS and found the slope that we needed to climb to reach the ridge that then led into Nugget Glacier.  It looked like it was 500 or so feet up to the top of the ridge judging from the topo maps.  But it otherwise looked really close to us.  In that big of a landscape, distances are decieving and it looked like it should only take us 30 minutes or so to skin up the slope. 

As we ascended it became clear to me that this was much more exercise than I had expected.  I had never skinned up with such a large pack.  I was sweating profusely and realized that I was totally out of energy.  I was a bit queasy from the morning’s experience so I hadn’t eaten an energy bar before starting up the slope.  Halfway up I begged Jason to let me take a break.  He rightly encouraged me to keep going.  The snow was starting to come away from our skis in small slabs, and then we started to see some bigger ones.  We were clearly getting into some risky avalanche terrain.  Finally we found a slope not too steep where I could stop and scarf part of a Snickers bar.  Soon we were off again.  During the rest of the climb, I seriously didn’t know if I could make it to the top.  My calves were starting to burn and I thought I might tear a muscle.  Clearly I wasn’t in as good of shape as I thought I was before the trip.  Jason though kept encouraging me on and the rope tethering me to him tugged with increasing urgency.   Jason climbed steadily with purpose, outpacing me even though he was skinning with only one ski pole – his other had fallen into the crevasse.

Finally we made it to the top of the ridge. I threw down my pack with relief.  Then we started discussing our options.  We had planned to ski down the slope into Nugget Glacier and then out the snow filled valley to the East Glacier Trail. Looking at the map and the terrain below showed it was quite a bit steeper than it had looked from the helicopter.  But we didn’t seem to have much choice.  My cell phone wasn’t getting reception.  We could ski back down the slope we had just come up and head over closer to Lemon Creek, but then we would have to risk the avalanche danger again and expend all that energy to make it back up a similar slope.  We couldn’t stay that much longer than Sunday anyway, because we only had one fuel bottle to cook with and melt snow.  And the longer we stayed, the avalanche danger would just likely get worse with the weather forecast.  So it seemed that our only option was to bootpack it down the slope roped up, hoping to avoid crevasses and somehow not trigger an avalanche.  But as Jason explored the area while I rested, I realized the slope we had to go down was probably twice as steep as the one we had just come up, likely with wetter snow, all of which pointed to extreme avalanche risk.

At the top of Nugget Glacier

I was boxed in.  Despair crept into my heart.  Suddenly, a flash raced across my exhausted brain – I had my VHF radio!  This time I had taped the power knob so it wouldn’t turn on inside my pack and it still had plenty of juice.  When I turned it my hope grew after receiving the weather forecast.  It could receive, but would the VHF be strong enough to transmit a signal to the Coast Guard?  I switched it to channel 16 and tentatively asked for Coast Guard Station Juneau.  Miraculously they responded.  My voice was shaky in reply.  Could they call Coastal Helicopters and have them come pick us up?  After a few brief exchanges of GPS coordinates and location description they went off the line to call Coastal.  When they came back on and told us a helicopter would be coming, I cried tears of joy and thankfulness to these servicewomen and men.  I still need to bake them something to express my gratitude.

But as we waited for the chopper our window of clear weather seemed to be deteriorating. Would the helicopter be able to reach us before the weather turned again?  All we could do was wait.  And I went off to relieve myself.  As we heard the sound of the chopper approach, we busily got our gear ready. I couldn’t stop smiling.  I was not going to die on this icy wasteland, far from my wife and children.  I would live to my 40^th birthday.  And maybe just maybe I would live up to the promises I made to myself and my God when I was bargaining for my life to be spared.  I hope so.