Tongass Views

Mitkof Isand's history includes some serious clearcut logging, which in turn, led to some serious road building, which in turn provides access to...denuded landscapes resembling a heavily bombed Ukranian war zone.  So, though I'm opposed to peppering this world with more grim reminders of the conflict between heavy industry and nature, driving on those roads can temporarily lead through some paintable locations.

Throughout southeast Alaska many of those logging roads soon become alder thickets as plant succession works it's wonders.  But, before nature has put the bandaid on what man has wrought, a few paintings have peered back at me from my easel as a result of stopping at pullouts before those roads became impassible.

And, as an aside, one led to what is probably the worst hike of my life.  On that day I sauntered with our old golden retriever, Bessie, up one of those overgrown logging roads.  Slipping between alders was as easy as eating rhubarb pie... and I congratulated myself for choosing such a clever route up Sam Peak.  I drooled at the prospect of photographing an unobstructed view of the Stikine River watershed that would unveil like the drawing of a movie theater curtain once I crested the top.  

But, when I reached the landing where logs were once loaded onto logging trucks, my smile evaporated.  While perhaps only a bit more than 100 yards remained to traverse the clearcut between the "road" and the tree line above, it might have been easier to charge through a wall of angry professional football players to gain that short distance.

The problem: while loggers are after logs they can sell, they leave behind tangles of tree limbs, tree tops and felled trees they deem unmerchantable.  And, on this steep slope, there were piles of them.  It looked like they had just felled the forest and walked away.  I found myself faced with piles of logs I had trouble just climbing over myself much less dragging a golden retriever.  We'd struggle to get on top of a monstrous log only to discover it only led to a dead end or a gain of a couple of feet before we had to abandon our perch.  From there we would descend into a maze of tree limbs that made each step a struggle to extract my legs plus a dog, only to reach another similar sized felled tree.  Repeat!  Mid-maze I contemplated turning back more than once, but that looke just as forboding as forging ahead.  Surely, surmounting the next log would reveal an open path.  Wrong.

But, I made it.  There, above the maze I found easy going along deer trails leading to the ridge and what I was sure would be a view worth the worst of struggles.  AAGH!  Au contraire, all I could see were tiny glimpses of something through a dense wall of trees.  My struggle had been in vain and I still had to get back down the mountain.

Oh dear, I've digressed from my intention in writing this post: sharing paintings of views I've discovered during explorations up these back roads.  

Here are a few:

Tongass Vista

I based this studio piece on a photo I took on my favorite logging road until we replaced our Mazda Tribute with a Honda CR-V.  The problem:  A dip in the road that requires high clearance.

OK, This seems to be my only painting from I road I can no longer traverse.  But, I've made plein air paintings in areas I accessed via roads that the US Forest Service has retained for public access.

Three Lakes Meander

The Three Lakes Loop provides access to a plethora of logging units and a popular system of trails connecting (surprise) three lakes.  This painting depicts a meadow near the trail leading to Crane Lake.

Favorite Meadow

The Ohmer Creek Trail leads to a wetland complex that I hiked into so I could argue with a "pack" of mosquitos while I painted it's "portrait.

Springtime on the Beaver Meadow

The view from the start of the Crane Lake Trail.

Last Bend

A particularly attractive spot is the access road to Greens Camp, a campground in what is the only Alaska State Recreation Area on our island. 

Deep into the Forest

This former logging road now leads to Petersburg's newest water reservoir on Cabin Creek.

Beyond the Bend

I used to park where the Three Lakes Road crosses Falls Creek.  There I could access what was one of my former favorite places to paint on this island.  But now, alders lay strewn across the creek (perhaps the victims of flooding) plus the rugged hike defies my aging body.  Sigh!

Air Drop

My last few blog posts included the subject of flying.  But not all my adventures involving planes in Alaska included me as a passenger.  

As a game biologist working in Anchorage in the 1970s, let's say I didn't fit the mold.  Hunting dominated the philosophy of powers to be in the Game Division and any other values of wildlife would take care of itself.  But, I had become an avid photographer so my values were misaligned with my employer.  Thus, I took several opportunities to step away from my job including leave without pay or vacation time.

So for one two-week break I hired on with the US National Park Service as a wildlife biologist.  I still can't figure how I pulled that off, but there, Rollie and I were assigned the task of documenting caribou calving in an area north of Denali National Park.  It's an area which President Jimmy Carter later designated as a National Monument in 1978 before legislation added it to the Park under the Alaska National Interest Lands Conservation Act (ANILCA).  President Carter signed ANILCA into law in December, 1980, just before the end of his term.

Travel 20 miles north down the Toklat River from the Denali Park Road and you'll come close to our assigned area.   Incidentally it's not too far from the location of an abandoned school bus on the Stampede Trail where an idealist adventurer, Chris McCandless, later died in 1992 from starvation, possibly brought on by eating poisonous wild-potato seeds.  The book, Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer documents McCandless's ill-fated adventure.

But, I digress.  Our plan was to backpack down the Toklat River drainage from the Denali Park Road where we'd set up camp and search the surrounding area for calving caribou.  And to lighten our load, our food would be air-dropped to us.  Nice!  Did I mention the need to wear mosquito netting head gear on that hike because of...take a guess?

For several days before our departure we packed food items on our menus in plastic bags so we could burn the bags after consuming our meals rather than keeping opened packaging around our camp to attract grizzlies plus having to pack it out at the end of our project.  Pure genius.

So contents of jars of Tang (an orangish drink), a tasty variety of Mountain House freeze dried dinners, instant cereal, powdered milk, Pilot Bread crackers, were each opened and transferred into plastic bags.  Perfect.  All we had to do was pack them in a large sack for our supervisor, Will, to air drop at our camp site.  We were proud at how efficiently we had packed that bag.

Now, I'd been chartering planes for awhile and knew a Super Cub's stalling speed was somewhere around 40 miles per hour.  I knew the Cessna Will would be flying would be flying faster than that but somehow I envisioned a low, slow pass and our food container gently leaving the plane as Will sent it our way making a mellow descent onto the tundra which would cushion the fall. 

Time for the air drop arrived and I remember being shocked how fast Will was flying as he approached far above the elevation that I had imagined.  I mean, really high above us.  That's when the duffle containing all our carefully packed food shot out of the plane like a US Air Force air to air missile rocketing towards the ground, not tundra, but a gravel stream bed.

Then, it hit...exploding in a cloud of freeze dried peas, beans, lentils, rice, chunk of ham, eggs, powdered Tang, powdered milk, cereal, Pilot Bread and whatever else was on our planned menu, rising like smoke over the bag.  In an instant our fine dining pleasure was turned into one item on the menu for three meals per day.  Need I say, Tang flavored milk isn't a good addition to egg-infused rice and beans.   Anticipation for our meals for the next two weeks didn't exactly qualify for the adjective, eager.

By the way, we may have seen one caribou in those two weeks but we never got close enough to be sure.  However, except for the dining part, it was a fine camping trip.

Lacking any digital images from those days, I'm attaching a few photographs Kären recently took of (to stay sort of on the subject of "aviators" and food) great blue herons.  Much to our delight our backyard may have become a heron rookery because last year we had two nesting pairs and this year it doubled to four nests.

Dinner time!  Scene seen in our yard.  Sorry for the screening vegetation, but the heron's desire for privacy prevailed.

A bit more visible while awaiting the next "food delivery."

An impressive sight in our yard and this is only a "baby" in pre-flight training.

Finally a clear view

Wait a minute!  What are you doing up there?  These photos are supposed to be about aviation and food!.

Moose Surveys III

I'm finally getting to the story I wanted to write about when I started writing about moose surveys -- one particular moose survey.  We had set off from our Anchorage home base for a moose survey west of Knik Arm.  Anyone familiar with Knik Arm knows that near it's northeastern headwaters, Cook Inlet splits into two arms -- Knik and Turnagain with Anchorage located at that that junction.  Turnagain Arm has the largest tidal range (up to 40 feet) in the United States and ranks fifth worldwide.  Knik Arm certainly can't be far behind.  Currents roar through glacier fed, silt laden Turnagain and Knik Arms with immersion in the water being virtually unsurvivable.

All went well that day until we ran into a large concentration of moose near the foot of a glacier "flowing" out of the Alaska Range.  With every circle over a group of moose, more moose seemed to pop up until finally, with fuel running low, we had to turn for home.  That's when we flew straight into unexpectedly strong head winds.  Progressing at an agonizingly slow rate I anxiously watched the bulbs on the fuel gages on either side of the cockpit slowly descend towards nada.  Soon the engine sputtered as the right gage registered zero with Anchorage nowhere in sight.  The pilot quickly switched to the dangerously low left tank until it, too, registered zero.

By then we had come to within sight of Anchorage with one remaining obstacle -- besides the miles that separated us -- the terrifying Knik Arm.  Reaching the shores of the waterway, with one tank totally empty and the other reading the same, the pilot announced we were going to head across to Anchorage.  I said NO and at that moment he spotted an abandoned airstrip.  We landed.  Now the prudent thing would have been to radio to someone at the Anchorage Airport that we needed help.  However, this pilot spotted a rusty abandoned Caterpillar Tractor at the end of the strip.  Nosing around he discovered there was still liquid in the gas tank, three gallons of which he was able to siphon into an empty Blazo fuel can.  

I have no idea what that tank really contained, but now we had something that smelled like fuel instead of Avgas in the plane.  With the fuel gage still registering zero and with great trepidation I agreed to join him as we headed across Knik Arm.  Need I say I was incredibly relieved when we safely landed in Anchorage marveling that we did not run out of gas as we taxied off the Anchorage International Airport runway?

By then I questioned the wisdom of that pilot and decided to scratch him from my list of potential transporters.  Six months later he and all his passengers perished in a plane crash.

Again, lacking digital images from those years, I'm attaching some recent photos Kären has taken far removed from Knik Arm, but rather on our Southeast Alaska Island.

The snowline doesn't even reach saltwater in mid-January this year.

But it sure is awe inspiring at higher elevations.

Agree?  See the alpenglow on the top.

No snow in the muskeg in early January.

Although some clear days have been pretty frosty.

There must be trumpeter swans somewhere around here.

Surely there must be some.

Aha.

No, you are not a swan or a moose!

 

Moose Part II: How Many Moose?

Working as a game (wildlife) biologist for the Alaska Department of Fish and Game through the 1970s an annual ritual involved flying surveys to establish the health of area moose populations.

Every fall and early winter we waited for fresh snowfall to blanket southcentral Alaska -- anticipating a call.  When it came, half a dozen biologists would climb into super cubs, two seated planes, the pilot up front, the biologist observer behind him, and off we would soar, each of us assigned to a specific part of a game management unit.  ADF&G divides the state into discrete areas (units) where moose and other species hunting seasons are set.   Our mission: to get an estimate of the size and composition of the area moose population.

A survey involves flying at low altitude in transects a quarter mile apart, enumerating the moose we saw...cow, calf, bull.  Surveyers circle each sighting to ascertain our call was correct, that the "cow" wasn't a bull that had shed it's antlers and there weren't other moose around.  Often there were.  Over the years, between moose, Dall sheep, and mountain goat surveys plus radio tracking moose, wolves and wolverines, I saw huge swaths of south-central Alaska.

The back seat of a super cub lacks the comfort of your average Winnebago.  Because of the often sub-zero cold and drafty quarters we bundled ourselves in down parkas and pants.  Still, I remember getting frost bite from a gap in a plane's door directing twenty below zero air at airplane velocity directly on my knee.

Some flights had hiccups.  As winter descended on Alaska, landing gear on super cubs was often configured to have both wheel and ski landing gear options.  During one memorable survey we took off from the snowless Palmer Airport on wheels.  Once airborne the pilot pumped the wheels up so we could land with skis on frozen lakes when we reached our snow-covered count area.  Note: At some point during surveys we usually had to land to refuel the planes with extra fuel we carried in metal 5-gallon Blazo (Fuel) cans stashed in the back of the plane. 

On that occasion, while returning to Palmer after completing our count, the pilot turned and announced "we have a problem."  On pumping the wheels back down to land at the snowless airport, one wheel descended, the other didn't.  Half and half doesn't meet FAA aviation standards.  Fortunately he was able to get the one wheel back up but all we had for landing gear were skis to land at a snowless airport.   So the pilot announced we we going to land on frozen grass alongside the runway. As we approached the air field I braced myself for a "sports spectacular" but instead the pilot executed a landing as smooth as soft butter on a warm piece of toast.

One pilot I trusted farmed potatoes as his other profession.  With him we departed from a runway next to his field which, during winter months, often gets pummeled by the famous Matanuska winds, the result of a high pressure area in interior Alaska and low pressure along the coast.  Arctic air is funneled down the Matanuska River Valley to blast the area around Palmer and Wasilla.  Temperatures just below zero and fifty mile an hour winds with blowing snow -- or dust (once exposed soil was cleared) made flying out of the question.

But one calm day we set off into clear skies headed towards Talkeetna, our mission that day -- to radio track collared moose.  We quickly discovered the calm on the ground was nature's ruse because upon gaining altitude we virtually stopped in mid flight.  Hovering over a Matanuska Valley barn seemingly motionless above it, the pilot queried "how fast do you think we're going?"  The answer...50 mph and we were stationary in the air.  The Matanuska winds reigned aloft but hadn't reached ground level...yet.

Returning to home base at dusk the winds had reached the ground.  All "hell broke loose" as we descended to land.  The plane bounced and gyrated all over the sky as the pilot fought to retain control of the aircraft.  Approaching the potato field runway I remember looking out my left side window straight down at the field mere feet from the wing tip as a wind gust knocked us sideways moments before we were about to touch down.  Landing a plane on it's side isn't generally recognized as advisable.  The pilot slammed the controls to upright the plane and wham, we hit the ground and it was over.  You'd think a pilot would be rattled by that landing, but as we taxied to his hangar, he chatted on like he was in a coffee shop conversation.  As for me, shaking revealed my state of anxiety.

We've shown you some images of Sitka black-tailed deer in Part I and here are a few more.

How about a kiss?

Sharing

Oh, it's you!

Yep, it's still you!

You can't fool me.  You are neither a deer nor a moose!

Wrong again!

I give up.  Let's find a new editor.

Next: Moose Part 3  Knik Crossing

Moose Part I: Encounters

If you live in much of Alaska, moose will inevitably factor into your life experiences.  Kären and I are no exception.

My first significant encounter came one spring in the mid-1960s when three of us set out in our 17-foot Grumman canoe on the Kenai Peninsula's Swan Lake Canoe Trail.  Naturally, as an aspiring wildlife photographer knowing about as much about moose as I do quantum physics, I packed along my new telephoto equipped Yashica SLR camera.  Canoeing through one lake we spotted a cow moose on a tiny spruce-covered island.  Aha, a wildlife photo opportunity!  Approaching the island we quickly realized she also had a calf.  Wow, this was my big chance.   However, the moose disagreed and led her calf to the opposite side of the island.

For the record, to reduce chances of being discovered by bears or wolves, cow moose will often "start their family" on isolated islands of trees, in this case, on an island in a lake.  

With the moose still in sight, but without a clear shot, I naively decided to disembark our canoe to climb up the, perhaps six-foot, bank at the edge of the island hoping for an unobstructed view of my quarry.  But no sooner did I pop into her view than the protective moose decided "Enough!"  Instantly she came at me like a freight train and there was no conveying my benign intent to her. 

Now my accomplices still had our canoe against the shore, but they had "seen the movie," and almost as fast as the moose charged, they pushed off to embark for safer waters, presumably in case she didn't stop at the edge of the island.  So when I leaped, intending to enter my refuge via a technique never discussed in canoe-safety literature, the craft had launched in exit mode.  Thus, I was too late to connect with my target and ended up with an Olympic-class leap into the frigid lake.  In retrospect, had my companions not fled, surely we all would have tested the water temperature that day.

Thankfully, upon seeing danger suddenly disappear over the bank and thus satisfied she had fulfilled her maternal duty, Ms moose broke off her charge and returned to her calf.  Meanwhile, after my being extracted from the lake, we decided perhaps this was not my big chance after all.

However, being a slow learner, several years later I spotted a cow and calf moose on a brushy mountainside in Denali National Park.  OK, I figured, I won't surprise her since there was nothing higher than my knees for camouflage so I'll just start walking slowly towards her.  If she decides she doesn't want us to commune in peace, she'll just move away.  Wrong!  I was still at what I considered a safe distance from her when she decided I was infringing on her personal space.  She lowered her head and charged.  Oh my, that "safe distance" evaporated in a flash and she was still coming.  I decided I would really rather be back down the mountain after all and set off to try to break the speed record for fastest human on earth.  But the footing lacked any semblance of levelness and within seconds I fell flat on my face.

That's when my Guardian Angel intervened.  Upon seeing her threat reduced to a flattened lump on the ground, the moose broke off her charge and returned to her calf.

Now I had two lessons under my belt, lessons I would eventually put to good use.  While working as a game (wildlife) biologist in Anchorage, we received a call one winter day.  A moose had wandered into some kind of scrap metal salvage yard and the owners couldn't get it out.  "Help!"

Reaching the scene, sure enough, the moose could not be herded from the yard to an open gate.  We got her close, to within sight of it, but had reached a standoff.  That's when I remembered my experiences.  The moose was pretty agitated by then so -- maybe.  Creeping out of sight through a maze of metal shipping containers, I navigated to a spot behind a container between the moose and the open gate.

Then I popped out in front of the moose and resurrected a childhood, naah naah naaah cry.  Instantly she charged towards me -- and the gate.  At the last second I ducked back behind the container as she roared past and continued on through the gate and hopefully safety -- at least as much as an urban moose in Alaska can realize.  Whew.  Such were the kind of successes a wildlife biologist in Alaska can achieve.

 

I've been close to moose on other occasions.  For a short period of time I tried commuting about 40 miles between Wasilla and my office in Anchorage.  Then one day the highway presented nothing but a sheet of glare ice as slick as bacon grease in a frying pan -- when sane drivers apparently opted of a second cup of coffee that morning.   As I crept along in my tiny red Datsun, a moose suddenly burst off the road's shoulder and onto the then two-lane highway.  Instinctively I hit the brake.  Now remember instructions from your driver's ed instructor when you were a teen-ager.  Yep, in an instant my car was traveling sideways down the highway in hot pursuit of the moose which had selected the same escape route.  Sliding sideways out of control down the highway at the identical speed as the moose, I remember looking out the side window of my car at her huge rump almost close enough to tickle as we "cruised" down the roadway in virtual lock-step.  Eventually she exited the road and I came to a stop, but as I crept on, I decided this commute might not be my best idea after all.

Lacking any digital photos from that era, I'm attaching to this blog some of Kären's images of Alaskan moose family relatives, Sitka black-tailed deer.

A deer encounters a corvid after swimming

across wrangell Narrows.

A doe supports cleanliness in America.

Looks can be deceiving.  Six legs and...?

Snack time!  This is the shot I wanted to get of a moose.

What!  Nobody's charging.

Closer than I want to be with a moose

I said moose, not goose.  Sorry.

Guess I'd better quit.