We were blown off the water. The wind was so gusty we couldn’t even get a trip off the protected South Beach. Which meant, this first-year kayak guide was getting a day off—possibly two. I didn’t bother to plan what to do with it beyond getting anywhere else, and quickly. The tunnel out of Whittier, the only land route to anywhere beyond, was about to open in ten minutes! Hopping into my forest green, 2000 Subaru Outback, aka summer dirtbag abode, aka Turtle, I shifted through the gears and got rolling.
As I pulled into the queue to leave town I pondered where to go. What I knew, as certainly as my very Alaskan Husky companion Finn, was that I wanted to spend this time adventuring on land. Ideally on dry land, as the paddling had been rather soggy lately. A glance up Portage Pass didn’t offer much to get excited about, but I held out hope for a patch of blue nonetheless. I would just set out, fingers crossed, and spot it.
At the Seward Highway junction I decided to turn left as the gloom seemed pretty thick in Turnagain Arm. Then, at the “Y” I veered west in pursuit of an actual patch of sun, landing us in Cooper Landing. Which is where? I pulled over to get my bearings. According to the Alaska Atlas there seemed to be a trail very nearby called Crescent Creek. A seven-mile hike in, with terrain that didn’t look too intimidating. Plus, a lake at the end which sounded rewarding and would make camping easy. We pulled out of the Sunrise Inn parking lot and turned onto a gravel road. There was dust, not a puddle in sight. Facts almost as exciting as the days off!
Parked at the trailhead, it was time to actually plan. What to bring? What to eat? What to wear? One of the advantages of living in your car is not needing to have much forethought, everything being at your fingertips. As a kayaking guide I’d gotten myself pretty well outfitted with gear, but I’d only backpacked a couple times and never solo. With the best judgment I had at the time, I packed my bag while Finn paced eagerly and impatiently. After strapping on his pack, loaded with dog food, I shouldered my own, locked up our “house” and we set out.
How can I tell you how beautiful the light was, laying in leaf-lace patterns on the wide pine needle path? Over a decade later I remember its brilliance trapped in the gem-like red currants I stopped to pick in the first few switchbacks. The air even smelled warm, resonant with spruce sap. Really there is nothing like the blissful optimism of a trail’s first mile. It’s like a blip of childhood.
“We’re going into the woods Finn!” He didn’t respond, didn’t have to, I could see how happy he was to dart all around, sniffing everything, leaving his mark. I felt much the same, just expressed it with a wide grin and a roaming gaze, hungrily soaking up all the good green I spotted. I also savored the physical sensations, the weight of my pack resting lightly, hands left free to swing, feeling the smooth, compacted earth underfoot. All were welcome changes from schlepping boats over uneven, rocky beaches. One look told me Finn couldn’t agree more.
Onwards and upwards. We settled into a steady rhythm. The narrowing trail took us gently up the valley, parallel to Crescent Creek, into denser woods. Bright airy greens gave way to strips of amber light, matching the dank musk of the forest atmosphere. Though my pack was no longer feeling so light, this life was a good one, simple. Setting one foot on the ground after the other, Finn’s upbeat prance through the leaf-litter, hopeful to catch some shrew or red-backed vole unawares, harmonized with my steady tread.
It became a beat, a song of being in the woods, just here, just now. Often time feels so finite but out here so much recalls the senses to the present tense. A leaf twisting on the breeze at the edge of view, a twig snap, a big sounding rustle that turns out to be a small bird, the nearing rush of clear, cold water.
I rounded a little bend to find what Finn was already lapping up. The creek met the trail but did not cross. A good resting and watering spot complete with a smooth, sun-bleached deadfall bench. Or was it a pew? We drank reverently.
Then it was time to continue on. And on. About 6 miles in I’d have described my pack as heavy as my guide boat! Had I overpacked? After taking a mental inventory I thought not. Appropriate though, I supposed, that the last mile should make up the difference from the first. Becoming tired being part of this. Noticeably uncomfortable, yes, but simultaneously satisfying. Earning rest at camp, earning sleep in a nylon cocoon.
And then it opened. Across a small bridge and into a swath of tall, tall grass, rolling like a small sea. Which proved to be an apt metaphor, as, by halfway, I had become soaked through. Though I was still on the trail it was impossible to see it. The overgrown and dew-drenched grasses had to be waded through and each and every blade deposited its water onto me. I discovered how pant legs could make perfect siphons for filling up my waterproof boots! In hindsight I should have remembered rain pants, mine were safely dry at the Whittier shop doing me absolutely no good. We kept moving to stay “wet and warm”, as they say.
After a little more walking we came to a real bridge, crossing the lake’s outlet. Just beyond it the trail forked, right to the public use cabin, hidden from view, straight to the established camp area. Nothing spectacular, just a flat open space with short grass, but we had it all to ourselves. And the view of the lake too. On inspection, clouds were gathering over the water, making it look like tinted glass. Making it look like it would rain. I picked my tent spot quickly, in case the sky decided to fall soon, and then sped into the role of a fastidious backcountry homemaker.
As a kayak guide, making camp comfortable for clients was a top priority. I fell into that practiced rhythm, disregarding my wet clothes. Tent pitched. Dry sleeping stuff safely stashed inside. Food stuff taken to a suitable cooking spot and arranged. Finn fed. Then I took the time to appreciate our landing place, the temporary kitchen/living room beside a reflective mountain lake! Even with the sky clouding over, the mountains had the lushness that false hellebore lends, a deceivingly even grassy green, sloping both up towards the sky and down into the lake’s unknown depth.
Before settling down to cook, Finn and I poked about for a bit. We located the essentials (pit-toilet in a clearing a bit away, a promising bear-hang tree), looked for animal signs and just enjoyed that loose, swing-y feeling that walking has after putting down a pack for the day.
Then we sat and boiled water. “People used to live like this” I told Finn.
Albeit much lower tech, I admitted before wondering, was it a better life?
In spite of his wildness, Finn actually preferred creature comforts when it came to nightfall. As I savored my “glorified ramen” he was already discontent. “You didn’t bring me a couch?” he seemed to say. Eventually he picked a spot and curled into a little husky ball with a withering sigh.
I was still content to be drinking hot soup and taking in the view. It would still be light for hours but I decided to turn in, in favor of extra sleep. The rain started just as I went to brush my teeth. Good timing, really. A perfect lullaby. We crawled into our thin fabric shelter and rustled about until we were one puffy, zipped-in blob. A now contented, cozy Finn slept immediately, but for a while I lay awake, thinking.
I thought I’d have felt farther out, being miles away from other people, with just Finn to accompany me. The constantly lapping ocean was missing outside my vestibule. A comfort I’d become accustomed to. The pattering rain, in a way, felt akin to waves.
As sleep gathered like fog settling on the lake, my thoughts turned to the following day. It would be like the day I’d just had but in reverse, somewhat. Clean dry clothes and the familiarity of Turtle at the end of a likely soggy slog. Although, with the grass crossing first up, my clothes could dry by then. A stop for food at the Sunrise Inn? Then a drive back to where the people are.
It’s funny, having seen the whole trail, my thoughts skipped to the endpoint. Back to the trailhead. The hike out. Back to rather than into. In.
As the raindrops pattered on the tent I anticipated visiting the pew-log by Crescent Creek. I remembered the feeling it evoked on the way in. A feeling of reverence. A reminder to live the day as a discovery. To step in time with the woods.
-Libby Ferrara
Libby Ferrara (she/her) works as an artist, poet and at building a bitty home beneath the hemlocks. In her free time she can be found with her dog, seeking wonders minute and vast in the environs of Seward, Alaska. Her poems appear in Seward Unleashed, Water and Wonder (2023), Cirque Journal and Alaska Women Speak.
How can I tell you how beautiful the light was, laying in leaf-lace patterns on the wide pine needle path? Over a decade later I remember its brilliance trapped in the gem-like red currants I stopped to pick in the first few switchbacks. The air even smelled warm, resonant with spruce sap. Really there is nothing like the blissful optimism of a trail’s first mile. It’s like a blip of childhood.
I rounded a little bend to find what Finn was already lapping up. The creek met the trail but did not cross. A good resting and watering spot complete with a smooth, sun-bleached deadfall bench. Or was it a pew? We drank reverently.
As a kayak guide, making camp comfortable for clients was a top priority. I fell into that practiced rhythm, disregarding my wet clothes. Tent pitched. Dry sleeping stuff safely stashed inside. Food stuff taken to a suitable cooking spot and arranged. Finn fed. Then I took the time to appreciate our landing place, the temporary kitchen/living room beside a reflective mountain lake! Even with the sky clouding over, the mountains had the lushness that false hellebore lends, a deceivingly even grassy green, sloping both up towards the sky and down into the lake’s unknown depth.
I was still content to be drinking hot soup and taking in the view. It would still be light for hours but I decided to turn in, in favor of extra sleep. The rain started just as I went to brush my teeth. Good timing, really. A perfect lullaby. We crawled into our thin fabric shelter and rustled about until we were one puffy, zipped-in blob. A now contented, cozy Finn slept immediately, but for a while I lay awake, thinking.