Frank E. Baker

With summer upon us, hiking and camping opportunities abound in our vast back yard: Chugach State Park. With nearly one-half million acres, the park is one of Alaska’s premier recreation areas.

The time-weathered road angling up the mountainside was quickly narrowing. Hiking slightly under an elevation of 3,000 feet, I was literally following the footsteps of gold seekers from the last century.

I soon came upon an open adit, or tunnel, where gold ore was taken from the mountain. From this point the raw ore was loaded onto a tramway that transported it about 1,000 feet down the mountain to milling equipment. 

The clouds were dark and a steady southeast wind was whipping up white caps on Eklutna Lake Aug. 24 of this year as I biked back to an old picnic spot where I took my children many years ago.

The lake level was high from August rains and waves lapped up close to the trail, threatening to wash it away as it has done several times over the years.

After more than three hours of steady climbing, I crested the ridge at 6,000 feet and looked over the other side, to the north. The iron-mineralized mountain slopes, composed of what geologists call gypsiferous rock, were bright orange in the mid-afternoon sun. 

The gray, rocky ground ahead of me seemed to be moving. Then I realized the motion came from a family of five Rock ptarmigan, all perfectly camouflaged. Still breathing heavily from the uphill push, I told them in my own brand of ptarmigan-English that I was not a hunter and they had no worries.

We must have spooked the Dall sheep below us, because almost in unison they bolted across the grassy slope and formed into a single line on the ridge to the south.

All lambs and ewes, they moved quickly toward Eklutna Lake, crossing over the next ridge and out of sight.

“It could have been something else below us that we can’t see,” offered my friend Pete Panarese, implying that it might have been a bear.

I confess to being a motivation junkie. I get my fixes from spectacles

like the Olympics, Alaska mountain running events, the Alaska Mountaineering Club (MCA), friends, books and movies.

Admittedly, my primary aim is selfish. Motivation is infectious. The supreme determination that vaults some people to extraordinary heights inspires me to pursue my own goals, however modest by comparison.

There has been plenty of good material written about how to respond to bear attacks. But after having my own share of close encounters with the ursine kind, I prefer total avoidance. And what has worked well for my fellow hikers and me over the years has been to make a lot of racket.

I’ve hiked with people who didn’t want to make noise so they could “see a bear.” That immediately signals to me that they’ve never been charged and felt their heart pounding so hard it felt like it was going to burst out of their chest.

Some of the most spectacular scenery in the world can be found on the Kenai Peninsula, and a great way to see it is via the Alaska Railroad “Whistlestop Train,” which runs from mid-May through mid-September.

After about a four-hour train ride July 20 from Anchorage, which included a side trip into Whittier, the Alaska Railroad dropped my friend Carl Portman and I off at “Spencer Whistlestop,” which has a spacious shelter for waiting passengers.

We then hiked on a wide, flat trail for about 2½  miles to the shores of Spencer Lake, left by the receding glacier.

The eagle circled below us and quickly gained elevation, then soared deeper into the narrowing valley. Within minutes, it disappeared behind a mountain ridge near the base of 6,821-foot Calliope peak, a snow-clad mountain visible to anyone hiking South Fork (Eagle River) Valley in Chugach State Park.

 I was certain it was a golden eagle, which I’d seen before in this area. Its head was not white, but the bird was too large to be an immature bald eagle.

On the Parks Highway headed for Palmer, Wasilla, Big Lake and farther north; or points along the Knik River if you turn right onto the old Glenn Highway, we’ve all passed by the shoe-shaped, tree-covered knob at Mile 29.6—a unique feature that nearly rivals the “Butte” in distinctiveness.

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