Alaska hike means snowshoes and shorts
RESURRECTION PASS | A good bear scare keeps you on your toes in these parts
In the last week of May, my husband, Mark, and I lugged our backpacks to Anchorage, Alaska, in search of a weeklong hiking adventure.
Mark is an experienced backcountry hiker, but this would be my first time carrying my own gear for days at a time.
We asked around Anchorage for recommendations, and everyone pointed in the same direction: Resurrection Pass.
Located between Seward and Hope in the Kenai Peninsula, Resurrection Pass covers nearly 40 miles of the Kenai Mountains, with an elevation gain of 2,200 feet through spruce and aspen forests. Along the way you can spot moose, bear, caribou, wolves, sheep and mountain goats. Good fishing can be found in the many lakes, and the trail is used year-round for hiking, cross-country skiing and snowmobiling.
"There might be some snow still up there," an REI employee in Anchorage told us, when we asked about trail conditions. "Might want to rent some snowshoes."
We took his advice, along with two cans of propane cooking fuel and camp food. From Anchorage, we drove two and a half hours south to Seward, an overcast, dreary port for cruise ships and fishing charters. The tourist season hadn't yet kicked into high gear, so we were able to spend a couple of quiet days hiking nearby trails and fishing -- quite successfully -- for halibut on a charter boat.
Our 50 pounds of halibut were cleaned, packed and ready to go, but Mark and I couldn't decide how to get the fish back to Chicago. We asked the folks at the J-Dock Seafood Company, who processed our catch, if they would store it for a week until we returned from the trail. They agreed -- free of charge.
Our final night in civilization we spent at the Russian River Campground, surrounded by swarming mosquitoes and posted warnings about bears.
The next morning, with our gear spread all over a picnic table, I heard some rustling. I looked up to see a hulking grizzly bear bounding toward us. I screamed and ran for the car. Mark had a different reaction: He searched for his camera.
The bear, meanwhile, veered to the left and disappeared into the woods.
We parked the rental car at the south trailhead of Resurrection Pass under blue skies and warm, 80-degree weather.
"Do you think we need these snowshoes?" I asked Mark, struggling to strap the awkward footwear to my pack.
"We might as well take them," he said. "It would be a shame to get to the top and need them."
With that, we signed our names in the ranger's book and off we went.
After our recent bear scare, I spent the first half of the trip petrified of having another ursine encounter. I religiously rang my bear bells to avoid surprising one and kept my finger firmly planted on the mace trigger. We were clearly in bear country: Paw prints and berry-dotted droppings were everywhere. We were in moose country, too, but these animals didn't scare me as much. (Mark and I did pass the time engaged in a lively debate about the worse way to die: trampled or clawed.)
Signs along the trail warned us to store our packs in the bear-proof storage boxes at campsites and pitch our tent 100 feet away. I added a few feet for safe measure.
In late May, people were scarce on this gorgeous trail, which had only a few steep switchbacks and plenty of fresh water. This time of year we enjoyed solid daylight even after 10 p.m., making it easy to pitch a tent and cook dinner without fumbling with flashlights and headlamps.
Three days into our hike, we woke in the morning to encounter a little snow mixed with mud. Soon, flakes covered the entire side of the cliff. As we peered over the edge, we saw an entire valley blanketed in snow.
Wearing T-shirts, shorts and heavy packs, we strapped on our snowshoes and tried to hike. But the melting snow had honeycombed into an unstable surface. As soon as we stepped, we plunged mid-thigh. We hiked like this for hours in the hot sun, guzzling water and ringing out our socks.
We could see in the distance one of the small fee cabins owned by the Forestry Service. It quickly became our destination.
We hadn't arranged for a permit, but we decided rangers weren't likely to drop by and check. So we spent the night in the A-framed cabin, reading the book signed by previous guests -- who had lots of bear reports. Moose wearing tracking necklaces wandered by the windows. It gave me peace of mind to have some real shelter.
After a tedious, exhausting day spent crossing only a few miles, we debated whether to keep going through the snow-covered Resurrection Pass or take a short cut out of Devil's Pass.
We decided we'd come this far, so we might as well take our chances and stick with the original plan.
The next morning, Mark started the camp stove and announced, "We're out of cooking gas." Thank God for granola and Clif bars.
We covered our socks with plastic bags, strapped snowshoes to our boots and waded through snow for the next six hours. When we finally reached muddy ground again, we happily packed up our snowshoes and practically skipped to the next cabin.
Our fifth and final morning, we faced the problem all backpackers meet at the end of their journey: How do we get back to the car?
By mid-morning we'd met a family of four (plus two dogs) about to cross the same pass we'd just hiked. We asked them for advice on retrieving our car.
"Here," they said, thrusting keys at us. "Take our truck."
Mark took a look at their tennis shoes and the their two push carts. "There's a lot of snow up there," he warned them.
That prompted a family meeting that ended in their decision to come back down.
Because we could move faster than they could, they insisted we take their truck, go get our car, meet them back at the trailhead and then we'd all grab dinner.
Mark and I set off and hiked until late afternoon when we reached the town of Hope, drove the truck 50 miles to Seward, picked up our rental car and drove 50 miles back to Hope, where the whole crew was waiting for us in the parking lot.
We went to dinner before heading to their home in Soldotna, where our new friends invited us to stay for Memorial Day weekend. And we did.
Was everybody in Alaska this personable and generous?
Considering half the year is spent in cold, silent darkness, and people are all you have, the answer, quite possibly, is yes.
Felicia Schneiderhan is a Chicago-based free-lance writer.