Getting Ready

It’s been two years since Gregg’s been on a caribou hunt. They’ve been too far north to make the trip feasible. I squirt a nickel-size puddle of cocoa butter oil into my palm to rub on my hands before slipping on the yellow rubber gloves I use to wash dishes. The oil absorbs into my hands as I submerse the gloves into the wash water; it’s like having a spa treatment for my hands while I wash dishes.) The water has been heating on the oil stove for an hour and is almost boiling, perfect temp for washing dishes that practically dry themselves, but impossible for my bare hands to withstand.

This year, the caribou are closer. Word from a local pilot has it that there is one large herd of a hundred and several smaller groups just 50 miles north, near Shaktoolik. I always start with the silverware, letting it soak for a few minutes in the steaming tub of soapy water. The plastic is blistered around the inside of the yellowed tub a couple of inches from the top from the scalding dish water that’s been poured into it over the past 20 years or so. Each fork, spoon, knife, and serving utensil gets a thorough scrub before being dropped into a twin tub in the next sink hole, steam raising the humidity in the small cabin to mold level. That reminds me; I need to check the floorboard behind the trash can again to see if it needs a bleach wipe down.

“What are your plans for next week?” Gregg asked as he walked in the door last night, smiling broadly. Since his small engine repair shop in town is open Tuesday through Saturday, Saturday is his Friday, which meant he had two days of trapping in front of him and he was in an exceptional mood, despite having hurt his back a few days ago lifting a snowmachine into the shop by himself. At 62, you would think he would know better and call for help, but he’s pretty damned independent, which happens after spending 30 years in bush Alaska.

“Caribou hunting!”

We had been discussing the prospect for the past several weeks, hoping for a bit more snow and word of exactly where and how many caribou were up north. The plans were now firmed up. 

We would pack up and head out Tuesday morning, intent on camping at least one night on the winter tundra, maybe two. There is a lot to do over the next two days to prepare, so while Gregg went out to check the trapline this morning, I decided to start by cleaning up the kitchen. I always hate to come home, after being away, to a pile of dirty dishes. We only wash once a week; sometimes I can eek out a day or two more, if we use soup bowls instead of plates for a meal or two. Because we have to haul our water and heat it up on the stove rather than just turn on a tap, we are mindful of dirtying dishes. Fourteen mismatched plates are stacked in the cabinet amid an assortment of bowls and glasses. In the silverware drawer sit 26 forks (yes, I counted them), and a few less spoons and knives. Since we use mostly cast iron that can be wiped clean with a paper towel or heated on the stove with less than a cup of water for tougher mess clean-up, there really isn’t a need to do dishes more than once a week for two people. Gregg uses the same coffee cup for a week. However, I change out about every third day. The dogs provide a useful plate-cleaning service after every meal so there is never dried food stuck to the dishes when wash day rolls around. We live in a very symbiotic environment.

Since Gregg came back with a fox from the trapline, he went into town to take it to the shop to thaw so that he can skin it tomorrow. He said the fox was caught in the snare with a marten that was only a skeleton. Apparently the fox had caught the marten and was carrying it in his mouth when he walked into the snare. You just never know what you’re going to find out there.

I’m beyond excited to go Caribou hunting for my first time, even though I’ve been wearing a brace on my right arm, just below the elbow to help with pain from “tennis elbow,” basically a strained muscle that the doc doesn’t know what else to call it. Try resting your right arm, not moving it or using it, while living my life. Pretty impossible, but last week, I did wear a sling for a few days and talked Gregg into doing the dishes and some other extra chores that I usually handle. I think it did hurt less, but as soon as I started using it again, it flared back up. A couple of days ago, when Gregg mentioned that I might not be able to go on the hunt because of my arm, I smiled, sat up comically straight, and declared that I had had a miracle healing! No way was I going to miss this Caribou hunt! I can heal later! (My sister will not be so happy when she reads this. I love you, Holly!)

I was thinking that I might be able to do laundry this week at a friend's house in town. They generously let us use their washer and dryer during the winter, which usually amounts to two or three loads one day during the first week of the month, more when I wash linens every couple of months. During the summer, July-August, I use the fishing guides’ laundry space at the Unalakleet River Lodge, toting the laundry in a canvas duffle bag on my back across the quarter-mile footpath. In the shoulder seasons of spring and fall, I make use of our own small washtub, which holds five pounds of clothing at a time, and clotheslines on the porch. Since I won’t be doing laundry this week, I’ll go ahead and wash underwear and socks on the washboard in the kitchen sink tub after I dump the dirty dishwater and warm up some fresh wash water. It’s really not a big deal, just another chance for a hand spa treatment. Then, I’ll hang them on a bungee cord stretched between the kitchen cabinets and the pantry, over the oil stove, to dry since it’s not cold enough outside to freeze dry them.

Tomorrow will call for a trip to town to go through all of the camping gear stored at Gregg’s shop, and pack the sled.

VRROOOMMMM!!!

VRROOOMMMM! One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Thr—VRROOOMMMM!

When the river became a racetrack this week, our quiet cabin sat on the front row. The world’s longest, toughest snowmobile race crosses 2,031 rugged Alaska miles from Anchorage to Fairbanks via Nome, along the Unalakleet River twice, on the way to and from the gold rush city.

This year, the race began last Sunday, February 18th, in Anchorage with 49 teams of two. The first team crossed the finish line in Fairbanks at noon today, February 24th, while I was writing this post. Less than half of the teams will finish the race due to injuries and mechanical problems.

There are checkpoints along the route approximately every 100 miles, sometimes nothing more than a tent and fuel that was air-dropped to the location months prior, and costs the racers up to $8 per gallon.

The Trail Class teams whizzed down the river Monday afternoon; one team even stopped to chat with Gregg as he was out checking his trapline. Then, the Pro teams came racing down the river in the middle of the night; 18 teams came through overnight, to be exact. Eighteen pairs of snowmachines, one just a few seconds behind the other, traveling at 80mph fifty feet below our bedroom window, over and over, all night long. The remaining five teams continued to race past until early afternoon, after which I took a much needed nap on the couch.

Because of severe weather, strong winds and blowing snow, the racers were kept in Unalakleet on a weather hold for 30 hours, before continuing the trek north to Nome. While in town, Jacob Evans, from team #15, was directed to Gregg’s small engine repair shop for a brake lever. Apparently, his had broken a hundred miles back and he had driven into Unalakleet (sometimes upward of 80mph) without brakes. Gregg, always ready to help, removed the working brake lever from a snowmachine in his shop that was going to be turned into scrap after going through the sea ice earlier this winter. He told Steve just to mail it back to him when he was through with it, since Steve had a new one waiting for him in Nome, his next major stop. With a smile on his face, he left Gregg’s shop, brake lever in hand.

After a mandatory layover in the city where gold was discovered by “Three Lucky Swedes,” the Iron Doggers began their journey to Fairbanks, which took them back south through Unalakleet, to avoid impassible mountain ranges. Thankfully, their pass through this time happened late morning through early afternoon yesterday, Thursday.

2,031 miles in six days with 37 hours of actual driving, 46 hours of mandatory layovers, and a 30 hour winter-weather hold, these tired souls crossed the finish line in Fairbanks, and this is just the start of the racing season out here.

Next up is the Iditarod Trail Invitational, a thousand-mile, bike, foot, or ski (the racer’s choice) marathon that begins in less than 24 hours just outside of Anchorage, traveling the same route to Nome that the Iron Doggers just did, right in front of our cabin. At least this race is much quieter! The world’s longest, winter marathon will have 22 competitors this year. Even though that race can last up to thirty days, the true Iditarod dogsled race will have its start in Anchorage next Saturday, March 3rd, race past our cabin around the 7^th, and the leaders will most likely cross the finish line in Nome sometime on Friday, March 9^th.

It’s a busy few weeks on the river and signals to us that spring is just around the corner, but the next few weeks are crucial. We need more cold and we need more snow in order to get the most out of our traplines and have a smoother caribou hunt next week.

www.irondog.org

www.visitnomealaska.com

www.iditarodtrailinvitational.com

Iditarod.com

February Trapline Tail

A day on the trapline always starts with a hearty breakfast; perfectly browned, crispy hash browns topped with a pair of over easy eggs, a couple of thick cut, strongly smoked bacon strips, and heavily buttered toast made from homemade sourdough, cinnamon-raisin bread. Every part of the meal is fried up in several 30-year-old, cast iron skillets on our 6-month-old, battery-operated-ignition, propane cookstove. Life is good.

The mid-February daylight means earlier mornings and no need for the kerosene lantern as we eat breakfast while watching the birds jockey for places on the bird feeder hanging from the porch beam just a few feet the other side of the window at which we sit. It’s been a dry, windy winter in western Alaska, on the edge of the Bering Sea, which means we have a rough ride through the backcountry ahead of us today. We linger for one more cup of coffee after the obligatory morning trip to the outhouse.

As I wave goodbye to our dogs, a young chocolate lab and an old husky/shepherd/wolf mix, sitting on the lower deck in front of our small, offgrid cabin, my husband’s snowmachine clatters down the frozen river. Gregg built this 400-square-foot cabin almost 30 years ago and has called it “home” every since. Despite the occasional grizzly knocking down his front door, breaking windows, and tearing up kitchen cabinets while he was away on extended guiding and trapping trips in the interior for months at a time, this modest cabin has stood the test of time. I smile to myself as I drive off behind my Mountain Man, catching up to him just as he climbs the bank that takes us off of the Unalakleet River and up through the tundra toward the trapping grounds.

Even where there is a trail, it’s rough. The weeks of 30mph winds have taken their toll on the countryside, carving short, hard, snow drifts and creating dips and holes that are impossible to see in the flat light. It is a jarring ride that reminds me of that one piece of hard-crusted, toasted heel that bumps the food processor blade round and round again as the rest of the dried bread turns softly into crumbs. My joints are the heel and my muscles become the crumbs. The dark blue clouds that are chasing us north bring hope of relief though, as snow is in the forecast. Six inches of fresh snow with no wind would be a welcome relief.

Gregg’s sled is loaded down with the necessities of the day – traps, snares, mailbox and milk crate cubbies, bags of bait, and tubs of tools. I watch the sled bump along behind his machine and wonder that nothing bounces out. He’s tied everything down well and turns around only occasionally to check that I’m still behind him, confidently unconcerned about the status of the sled contents.

When we arrive at the first set (several snares and a foot-hold), there are lynx tracks but the bait and the sets are untouched. The creek below the set has open water, probably just overflow, but not a good early sign of what’s to come today. It’s an unseasonably warm day, low to mid 30’s expected, and we’re just a couple of days away from a New Moon. Those conditions bring higher tides and overflow, water from underneath the ice that has found a crack to escape to the surface, even on inland rivers and creeks. It’s truly amazing how much change there is over the course of a month.

The next set we check is a couple of hundred yards up a narrow creek bed, usually accessible by snowmachine. Not today. We disembark and cross the creek carefully, choosing a narrow band of intact ice to step quickly across, and wade through the heavy, knee high snow on the other side. When we round the bend and are within eyesight of the set, we see it. To me, it looks like a small bear. Gregg identifies it immediately. A wolverine! We are frozen in our tracks, 40 feet away from the animal, checking for any movement, any possible rise and fall of its chest before getting any closer. It’s a large one, about 40 pounds. He’s stiff with rigamortis but not frozen. He hasn’t been there for more than a day, a beautiful, yet terrifying, creature. He died barefanged, trying to chew the body grip trap in which he was caught by the neck. He didn’t even get to the bait, so Gregg quickly resets the trap and smiles as he lugs the heavy catch back to the sled. Even though I’m walking behind him, I can feel his smile, big as the country we are making our way through today.

 

After checking a couple of untouched marten sets, we discover a creek that we usually cross as a shortcut to the rest of the line is open today. This country changes every day. Drifts appear where there were none yesterday. Creeks open up where they were frozen solid last week. Trails appear and disappear on the tundra with the rise and fall of the wind. We have to be on constant alert. Nothing can be taken for granted. That’s how people get into trouble. That’s how people get lost. That’s how people get hurt. That’s how people die.

“Well, we’re gonna have to go ‘round, and that’s gonna add a 45 minute ride,” Gregg sighs, still smiling. He’s always smiling. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I know what he looks like with a frown. Sure, he can be serious, but even when serious, he’s still got an upward turn to his face. He’s a man who smiles with his whole face, even his bright blue eyes smile from behind his glasses. On the trapline, his favorite place to be, his smile is constant, even with a cigar hanging out the corner of his mouth.

“Well, is there somewhere else you’d rather be?” I ask, knowing the answer.

“Nope.”

“Then, let’s get this show on the road!” I smile because his is so damn contagious. It’s a beautiful day, even with the gray sky and flat light. I’m warm from the heavy, sharp turns through the pine thickets, so I unzip my parka and start the machine. There is no place I’d rather be either.

The long-way-around trail was in good shape and provides for a comfortable ride through a valley with fantastic scenery the entire way. Up and down hills that provide panoramic views at the top, mountains rising all around us, and just enough challenge up and over drifts to keep our attention. By the time we reach our destination, just a couple of hundred feet from the other side of the creek where we started, we’re ready to stretch our legs only to discover that some varmint has stolen all of our bait at the first set and even escaped from one of the snares. However, it reveals itself through paw prints left in the snow.

“Maybe that fox’ll be up the trail in the next set,” Gregg says, expectantly. And, he’s right.

A sneaky, red fox was crouched, very much alive in a snare at the next set. He’d managed to wrap it twice around his neck, kinking the wire and preventing it from giving him a quick death, even though he was securely caught. Gregg put him out of his misery with a swift swing of the hammer and we added him to the game sack with the wolverine.

The next challenge was crossing the overflow on the North River to get to the next 20 marten traps. Gregg unhooked the sled and left me behind on my machine while he water-skipped across the opening and went up river to check the trail. Back in ten minutes with good news, I followed him across and up, leaving the sled behind, as we didn’t want to risk sinking it with the fresh fur in tow. Less than a mile later, we came across a live wolverine caught by the foot in a fellow-trapper’s snare. Gregg would call the owner up when we got back to town to let him know, rather than shooting the wolverine himself and taking him in to the trapper. One just never knows how another will react to your treatment of their fur. Turned out that the man in question would have been just fine with it.

Trapper etiquette aside, the search for traps set a week before can sometimes feel a bit like an Easter egg hunt. We put one in this thicket somewhere, didn’t we? Where’s that fresh fallen tree that we used? How many have we checked in here and how many did we originally set? Twenty sets and two marten later, we water-skipped our way back to the sled and headed for home.

It had been a perfect day. Sixty miles of backcountry and river trails mixed with a late afternoon snowfall, some very tired muscles, and four critters to skin made me happy to part ways with Gregg as he headed the four miles in to town to hang the animals to thaw in his shop while I turned for home, our little cabin, eight bumpy miles away, to get the fire going and start on dinner, mooseburgers with pan-fried potatoes. However, the call of ibuprofen washed down with a whiskey and water, river water, caused me to flop down on the couch and cuddle up with our lab puppy, not moving until Gregg walked in an hour later.

He carried in a cardboard box with him, telling me that some friends of ours had sent home a fresh, King Crab, still alive! He hung up his rifle and removed his snowpants, parka, and beaver hat while I carefully opened to box to reveal a wriggling, pinching crab, several feet across from tip to tip, and squealed with delight! Could this day get any better?

After a relaxing whiskey and water of his own, Gregg offered to make dinner, Surf & Turf. I could hardly believe it when we finished off half-pound mooseburgers, an entire King Crab, and several potatoes. It was definitely a day for the record books!

Collecting Wood

Trapping is about so much more than catching and skinning animals. It’s about collecting wood to keep the shop warm enough to thaw the frozen critters before skinning. It’s about days spent riding drifted over trails to check empty traps. It’s about setting, picking up, moving, and resetting dozens of traps only to do it all over again in a couple of weeks when they don’t produce. It’s about long hours crossing terrain so rough that you can’t catch your breath between bumps.

There’s not much that can keep my trapper-husband, Gregg, inside the cabin for an entire day. After a hearty breakfast of corned beef hash, fried eggs, and homemade cinnamon raisin toast, we usher the dogs outside, gear up, and head out for our secret spot with loads of standing deadfall. Our 10-year-old husky/shepherd/wolf, Denali (“great one”), and her 2 year-old Chocolate Lab sister, Nuka (“little sister”), curl up on the hay in their dog houses on the deck and watch through the blowing snow as we check the sled, crank up the snowmachines, and head off down river. Living eight miles from the nearest year-round neighbor, the dogs have learned to stay home when told, so there is no need to tie them up, which leaves them with a sort of self-imposed freedom.

 

We are on the Unalakleet river for less than a quarter of a mile when we take the trail up the bank, headed north over the tundra toward the trapping grounds. It’s been a dry winter with strong winds, leaving the tundra hillock tops bare and the trail rough, to say the least. The snow has been blown in diagonal, jagged sheets in places, hard as rock and jarring to drive over as the snowmachine skis clatter and shake, vibrating the machine all the way up through the handle bars like an electric shock continuing to the driver’s shoulders. It makes for sore wrists and sore elbows, sore backs and bruised knees when the occasional thump thrusts the driver forward into the machine itself. My mind wanders to the sled full of logs that Gregg will be towing back across here in a few hours.

Gregg chooses a tree.

Finally, after several miles, we hit the tree line and begin to pick our way along the well-worn trail that he and Sissy have been using all winter. The trees become a thicket in a hurry and soon the trail is barely wide enough for my skis to pass, weaving in and out, up and down, over and around, hard drifts and frozen creeks. We make a couple of loops off of the main trail to check empty marten traps and Gregg collects them and piles them in the sled to reset somewhere else. North River, where we are, seems to be trapped out for this season. One trap has a Gray Jay, aka Camp Robber, in it, aptly named since it is always a terror, stealing trap bait and flying away. This particular little guy wasn’t so lucky, probably too full and fat to move fast enough to make his getaway. Oh well. At least this one won’t be stealing any more of our bait!

Helping out.

After collecting six empty traps, we arrive at the beaver pond with the deadstanding timber. There is a large beaver house with two air-hole snow cones at the top, indicating an active house. However, there is no other beaver sign anywhere. Gregg quickly spots his target, unpacks the chainsaw and trudges through the knee deep snow toward a 30-foot pine, hanging moss replacing the needles that have long since fallen off. The trees in this particular spot all drowned when the beavers moved in. Completely inaccessible in the summer, it makes the perfect spot to collect dry wood in the winter.

Tying down.

The tree falls right where Gregg wants it and he begins removing limbs and sawing it into lengths which he measures with his arm breadth, and I follow along clearing the limbs out of the way and rolling the eight-foot lengths 180 degrees so that he can go back through and remove the limbs and stubs from the underside. Two of these trees usually makes a big load and once they are snugly tied into the sled, traps on top of the logs, it’s time to head home. The day has turned sunny and bright, with the 20 degree sunshine causing us to stop and discuss the option of possibly dropping the sled and heading further up the trail to hunt for moose antlers, which make terrific chews for our dogs. After all, it is shed season. We decide we’re tired and ready to head back; he’s still got to haul the logs to town and unload them at the shop. I’ll head back to the cabin to work on a sewing project and get dinner started, moose burgers and hash browns.

Heading home.

Back at the small engine repair shop that Gregg owns in town, he sees that Boyd has been by with three lynx and hung them to thaw. Gregg unloads the wood, while his mind wanders back to the trap line that he helped Boyd, a local state trooper, set up earlier this season, thinking to himself, “Boyd, your Jedi training is complete.”

Gregg has shared his love of trapping with a number of people throughout his life, taking them under his wing, showing them the ins and outs, celebrating their catch with them. Yes, trapping is about more than catching and skinning critters. As the wood we gathered will keep the shop a warm place for the physical taking care of the animals, it will also provide a warm place for shared stories, smiles and laughter among trappers in this small village on the Bering Sea.