Day Two: Over The "Pass"

The morning brought brief breaks from the rain. We spent (Spent: The wing position of many aquatic insects when they fall on the water after mating. The wings of both sides lay flat on the water. The word may be used to describe insects with their wings in that position, as well as the position itself.) it eating, trying to dry a few things out, and at one point photographing a group of cows and calves that walked up to within bow range of camp before proceeding right up over the mountain like wild goats. Other cows and calves, about a dozen total in singles and pairs, appeared and disappeared like ghosts on distant hillsides or in the scrub brush far below us.

We broke camp in a light drizzle and headed around the ridge toward a broad, branching valley. Here a massive mountain stood between us and our planned destination, a vantage point overlooking several valleys and the confluence of Pass and Clearwater creeks. Circumventing it to the east would require a miserable three-mile, side-hilling bushwhack through trackless, tangled dwarf birch.
To the west was a gradual climb through alpine tundra to the head of a valley, where both distant vision and a topo map indicated the existence of what one might think is a navigable pass, if one did not know any better. We did not know any better, so we aimed for The "Pass."

Rounding the ridge and hiking up the valley toward The "Pass" put us in constant visual contact with caribou, at least fifty in all.

Although people use this general area, I doubt any human had set foot in this particular cul-de-sac for years, and the caribou seemed to know it. They were scattered all over, from singles up to groups of a dozen or more, watching us with little concern unless we approached within rifle range. It was reassuring to see so many animals, but there was not a single adult bull.



It took much of the day to cross this large valley and ascend a tundra shelf toward The "Pass." Near the end of this route I looked to the trickling creek below and spotted motion. Wolverine!!! Neither of us had ever seen one before, and we enjoyed watching it work its way downstream out of sight. My GoPro footage of an unidentifiable, receding speck is did not do justice to this remarkable sight.



We continued up toward The "Pass" and over a couple of false crests in the valley that frustrated us with our heavy packs and tired legs -- We're almost there... oops, nevermind. But that was weak preparation for the disappointment that awaited at the true top of the route. The word "uh-oh" took corporeal form in the pit of my belly as I took the final steps and a new landscape came into view. I stood atop a steep slope of loose, wet scree. I realized I should have considered more carefully the geology of these mountains, which were upthrust in such a way that many of them have gradual tundra slopes on the south side and steep walls of crumbling rock on the north.



The view from this 4,500-foot perch was incredible, as the ground dropped away into a massive rock-sided bowl containing a high mountain lake and some rolling tundra hills, beyond which stretched a vista of rivers and dramatic mountains painted with the beginnings of fall. As I stood in admiration and wondered how the hell we were going to get down from here, I realized that about fifty yards to the west the slope of my cliff eased up a little bit, and a tangled web of switchbacked caribou trails descended to the valley below. Although still an uncomfortable thing to tackle without climbing gear, it seemed like a better option than spending two days circling the mountain in the other direction.

After a long break to gather our nerves, we began a half-hour descent. Every step was placed with the utmost caution on the irregular, six-inch-wide trail, bracing ourselves with trekking poles, gradually shifting weight from each foot to the next to avoid destabilizing the loose mud and pebbles and sliding down the chute out-of-control. We mostly kept our footing, but many small pebbles came loose and tumbled a very long way, reminding us to be careful.

It was really rewarding to reach the bottom of The "Pass" for the first--and certainly last--time. It's an amazing place nobody should ever go. I found myself thinking, for the first but not the last time on this trip, I hadn't truly lived until I'd done this, and I am never doing it again.



Once on the valley floor we lost no time moving toward camp, although it might have been a better strategy to just stand at the bottom and wait for a caribou to come along and fall to its death. We had to cross some more steep spots, and pick our way through long fields of coarse talus and boulders the size of Buicks. Four cows and calves passed nearby to reassure us that there were caribou in this area, too.

We eventually emerged on the knob of tundra I'd identified from topographic maps as a good lookout point across several large valleys. The view here was actually a little bit too good--I could see many miles across a vast landscape of places too far away to pursue an animal and expect it not to be gone when I arrived. Even with this view, no bulls were in sight.

A tired search for campsites sites had us settle in at 3888 feet elevation, pitching tents yet again beneath a frigid drizzle.