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A single strand of spider silk stretches and snaps across the bridge of my nose before I can react. Well, the trail is mine then- no one else has walked this path recently. I smile as I tread deeper into the lush green forest. All around me, I hear droplets falling, but I know the rain has already stopped. These are just the drippings of the leafy canopy begrudgingly letting go of some of the water it has caught.

 

The forest floor seems to steam with moisture too, creating a humid jungle through which I now pass. To my left, the Tiaya river occasionally makes an appearance. Rushing loudly by sometimes and others sliding by silently but beautifully. Its color is a seemingly otherworldly shade of blue-green.

 

I've hiked this particular stretch of trail once before, on a bright sunny day. Then the sunlight dripped cheerfully down through the leaves as the wind parted their dense cover. Today, the woods are much darker. It's almost ominous. Someone less comfortable in the wilderness might be jumping at the myriad sounds all around, mainly of water landing on a new leaf or rock. Not only have I seen these woods recently, but I've also walked thousands of miles in similar forests, on similar days, with a similar mission. Summit a dauntingly high pass and descend through the other side.

 

 

This pass has been named, as many have, especially if they have some historical importance. This one is no different, although it is unique. The Chilkoot pass served as one of the only paths into the Yukon for thousands of hopefuls chasing the Klondike gold rush. It is only a few miles up a deep finger of a valley from the ocean, making it ideal for this endeavor. But the route is rough, and they were often making it in winter. I'm thankful I am not.

 

As I swat a mosquito on my arm, I'm also thankful for the chill in the air today. Although it's cold enough I almost want another layer, it also serves to keep my arm hairs standing up, allowing me to feel the little pests land so I can swat them before the bite. In relation to the rest of my time in northern Canada and southern Alaska, the mosquitos aren't too bad today. My list of reasons to be thankful is ever growing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After quickly walking the first flat few miles of trail, lost in my own thoughts, I reach the furthest point I've ever traveled on this trail. It's a place called Finnegan's point. Evidently, this was the spot where Mr. Finnegan had erected a corduroy bridge for the Stampeders and "packers" paid to assist them could cross the Taiya. The historic trail follows the other bank I'm told later. I hike on wondering to myself exactly how one builds a bridge out of corduroy, especially because it was said Finnegan charged by the horse. Boggled a bit, I move along, intrigued and entertained.

 

My eyes are more open, examining this new portion of trail. Aside from the occasional climb away from the river, it is much the same. I do notice a patch of white lichen on a tree facing me that is almost perfectly rectangular. 2 inches wide and 6 inches tall my brain immediately assumes, based on its familiarity. It looks nearly identical to the "White blazes" that mark the length of the Appalachian Trail. Suddenly I'm rushed back to 2006, on my first real backpacking adventure. The memories and emotions that flood to the surface keep my mind occupied for the next few miles to the camp at Canyon city.

 

They are quick and quiet miles, my feet

padding along on a soft bed of pine

needles. The dripping from above has

slowed, nearly stopped. The

underbrush has become a vibrant

green carpet of ferns.

​

The city is no longer standing, aside

from an old boiler and the remnants

of a wooden cabin. There are a few

random bits of metal from that bygone

time when it was an important staging

area of sorts, but not much to speak of.

Ducking into the canvas warming hut

that the park service maintains,

I lay down my pack and cook a quick

lunch.

 

Warm food on a cold day feeds the soul

as much or more than it does the belly.

Taking off a heavy pack also serves to

brighten spirits, but that doesn't last

long. Shouldering my pack, I head on

towards Sheep camp, where my permit

tells me I am to sleep tonight. At this

point I'm already halfway there

according to the mileage, but not the

elevation. It looks like I've got a bit of

climbing to do.

 

Just as I reach the real incline of the

trail, complete with well-placed rock

steps, the rain begins to fall. Any bit of

kindness via flat trail or decent weather

is over. The effort of climbing with a

pack on generates heat, and with it

being this humid already, I'm pouring

sweat. But, the air is cold and not still by any means, not to mention the cold drops sprinkling down from the clouds. I'm faced with a common dilemma for a hiker- do I put on my rain jacket?

 

This may seem a silly question. It's raining, why wouldn't you? Well, they don't breathe at all. Despite many a dollar thrown away at gear shops around the world, to keep most of the moisture out, you end up trapping most of the body's moisture in. So really the question becomes- warm sweat or cold rain? Youre going to be wet either way. I opt for the jacket, as I'm getting a bit chilled.

 

Plodding along, more or less soaked, I eventually swing into Sheep camp. The rain is still steadily falling and I notice that this camp utilizes tent platforms. Not too uncommon, but they necessitate the creative use of rocks or looping guylines through the slats somehow in order to "stake out" the tent. This isn't too difficult, but anything that adds to the time it takes to set up your tent when its raining is quite the added frustration. I also quickly notice essentially all of the pads are taken. That means there will no doubt be a crowd in the cooking area too. 

 

With the solitude of my day shattered I pitch my tent somewhat haphazardly on an empty pad I find near the composting outhouse. Luckily, the odor isn't bad. It'spossibly being suppressed by the rain. The slamming of the door could be quieter, but who's complaining?

 

I grab all of the potentially bear enticing objects I've got, anything with a possible smell, up to the bear lockers. They are right outside of the communal area, which looks new. Its a raised and covered area made from raw logs, with 3 picking tables up each side. Not bad. It is rather full of soggy groups of hikers talking amongst themselves (some with smallish kids!) and cooking dinner. I sit in an unoccupied spot and start breaking out my cookout to do the same. Then I realize, I'm really not hungry. Looking down at my watch I see its only a little after 3. Too early to eat, I decide. Don't want to wake up hungry in the middle of the night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stowing my foodstuffs, I head to the warming hut. This camp is much bigger and obviously more popular than the others. I pass two smaller canvas huts like I had seen on the way up and enter the squat log cabin style one that has smoke pouring from its stovepipe. There are clotheslines hung every direction, draped with the damp layers of the occupants within. Sitting around the central woodstove are an older couple and a group of three women roughly my age. This group is much more welcoming and engaging than the groups up the hill cooking. It seemed they were large enough to be able to and to want to remain self-contained. This cheery fivesome was the opposite. With conversation flowing, I take a seat.

 

I hang a few wet layers myself and when one gal offers up her shampoo, I gladly take her up on it and head to the river for a very chilly "shower". When you know you have a warm fire waiting for you, the cold seems inconsequential. The trail has always had a way of allowing people opportunities to demonstrate the "kindness of strangers". People accommodating each other and sharing what they have with no ulterior motive. Later, I let another hiker charge her phone from my spare battery so she can set an alarm. She's quite worried how long the pass will take her.

 

The rangers back in town, as well as the one that comes by this particular camp each night with updates on the pass, are all very clear that "you've gotta start by 5 am to get over the pass by noon, otherwise the avalanche danger is just too high". Many of the hikers here are a bit older, or rounder, or have their kids along for the journey. Most are taking 5 days to complete the trail to my 3. Leaving early is likely not a bad idea, but I wonder if that rule will apply to me.

 

Sun "sets" at 1030 here, which makes it tough for me to sleep. That and the heavy rains that cone in the night are challenging my poorly pitched tent. When 3:30 am rolls around and the light brightens, I'm tempted to get up. The rain has stopped. Do I take this window? I roll over for an hour or so and then decide to go for it. After packing my sopping wet tent and only damp belongings, I inhale a quick breakfast and hit the trail. 

 

My backpacking mornings are well rehearsed from all and it takes me no time at all. This ends up making me one of the first to leave camp, with the break in the rain still holding.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The ranger had me bracing for a near constant rain, but it never actually returns. The day gets cold quickly, however, as the trail climbs from camp rather quickly above treeline. The wet foliage draped dirt gives way to talus and I am soon hopping across boulders, looking up to the mountains shrouded in fog above me. The path remains clear enough and well marked with little bits of pink on the end of upright bamboo wands. As I ascend higher, there are scattered snow patches on the ground and the cloudy ceiling looms lower. Countless stream crossings make me thankful my trail runners are waterproof, and my socks still dry.

 

The rocky walls close in with each twist of trail as I am guided up the ever-narrowing approach to the pass. Streams pour in from all sides and run down the lowest points of the valley. There are three big climbs, each a false summit, before the long grueling rock scramble up to the pass. I take countless small breathers on the way up, but overall keep up a respectable pace. When cold, just hike harder.

 

The real pass is this small keyhole notch, whose climb veers suddenly off to the left from an area called "the scales". It bears that name because before heading up and over into Canada, stampeders were required to have a ton of provisions in order to survive a year in the Yukon. (At the time, 1,150 pounds)

 

Also interesting, the U.S. Canadian border here wasn't perfectly established leading up to the gold rush. Seeing what was coming through Canada deployed Mounties to Chilkoot and its alternate, White pass. Where they found a good defensible position, like the notch of the Chilkoot pass, they plopped down a machine gun. From then on, everything behind the gun must be Canada.

 

I've only got to make the trip once, carrying my 35-40 pounds. I mentally add this to that list of thankfulness as I reach the top, soaked again. It is entirely socked in with fog, but I can just make out the trail markers and spot when they change from the orange U.S. ones to the more flag style Canadian ones. I made it.

 

Hiking amongst the clouds, they part slowly to show me the warming hut atop the summit. This one has no stove but does have four wooden walls. Enough to block out the wind and give me a bit of respite from the cold. In order to really warm myself in going to have to keep moving. Descending to lower elevation will help too, so I move along after just a short break and snack. Checking the time before heading down the avalanche-prone Canadian slope I laugh. It's 7:45. Guess I left camp far too early.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

About 200 feet from the warming hut, just as the ground slopes downward away from me the clouds part. They simply break open in this dramatic reveal of the terrain below. A beautiful big blue lake is at the bottom of the snow slope I stand on, framed by rugged rocky mountains, some still shrouded in fog.

 

It is another world on the BC side of this mountain. Gone is the rainforest. Tumbles of rock, now moss and scrub-covered are the valley floor as far as I can see. Craggy mountain walls with snow clinging here and there, with countless little streams pouring down and across my path as the snow melts up above.

 

Soaking up my suddenly changed new surroundings

the going is easy. Mostly flat or downhill, with obvious

footing and only a few snow patches or stream

crossings requiring much in the way of sure-footedness.

A couple quick hours later, I find myself at Happy Camp.

This is where my permit says I'm sleeping, so I scope

tent pads on the way in. There's one tent spot on the

ground, overflow no doubt, that I mentally mark as

mine. I head into the warming hut to hang out some of

my soaked clothing and gear, only to find there's no

stove here either. I got spoiled last night at sheep camp.

I lay out my damp everything and pitch my tent to dry

and settle in to cook up some lunch. It's only 10. 

 

Realizing I need more water, I pop down to the river flowing past the front of camp. The headwaters of the Yukon. On my return, I hear voices. Maybe someone else from the last camp was close on my heels rounding a bush I see its two rangers coming up to do some work on Happy Camp. We say our hellos and I step back into, the warming hut only to bump into another ranger checking to see who is here. Talking with her as I cook, I learn there is a woodstove down a couple more miles at another camp and that they really don't mind me jumping off my permit. The other rangers join us, drinking coffee as I eat my lunch, everyone's cup steaming. I learn from them about a few local rivers I can packraft and some great areas to hike in northern Alaska.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Knowing there's 30 something people headed here, I

imagine how crowded with sweaty bodies and

dangling clothing this room will get. Honestly, that's

part of the fun and leads to meeting some wonderful

strangers, but when the rangers tell me they're

expecting more rain this afternoon I make up my

mind to move on. A cabin on a lake with a woodstove

sounds like a more fun place to ride out the next

storm.

 

The new goal is upper Lindeman camp. Lower Lindeman has been closed because of a bear showing signs if human habituation. The two or three miles above and below lower Lindeman are also marked on our maps as a bear warning area, that should be traversed in "tight groups of 4 or more". Great. I end up using the same trick I did when I hiked alone through Yellowstone and turned on a podcast on my phone. I downloaded them for the long hours driving, but it simulates a group of people making noise and talking, effectively making me sound like a larger group. It seemed to work. No signs of bear on my way to the little log cabin.

 

 

 

 

 

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After chopping some wood and stoking a fire, I hung out all my wet gear, which got gloriously dry. It took some time to heat the small room, but it did feel soothing to be warm not by adding more layers and bundling up. I still had a good bit of the day left, but those hours passed quickly chopping wood, gathering water, making dinner and writing a bit. I couldn't help but imagine a life much like this on my own theoretical homestead somewhere. The sun poked its head out a few times, but it seemed from the building winds that a storm was approaching. 

 

The wind howled most of the night, probing the openings between logs. It would find a few not blocked well enough with batting and send a draft of cold air swirling in. The little woodstove fought back valiantly and kept the cabin warm. It is amazing how the very sound of wind creates the feeling of cold. But, I didn't even notice the drafts once I crawled into my sleeping bag. What I did notice was when the wind stopped halfway through the night. The absence of a sound I had grown so used to wasn't the only reason. With the wind calm, the mosquitos came back out to play. Those same openings that the wind found to draft into my cabin served the mosquitos search for entry.

 

Buzzing onto any part of me exposed from the bag just as Id drift off to sleep, they slowly drove me mad. Most would flee if I moved, which seemed like new behavior. I could normally bait them in and eliminate them. I had to be quicker in the cabin, which unfortunately meant more alert. This worked against my hopes of sleep. Eventually, I pulled the drawstrings tight on my mummy bag and hoped they wouldn't find my nose. Somewhat surprisingly, this worked and bought me another couple hours of fitful sleep. Finally, my annoyance outweighed my desire to sleep and I extracted myself from the bag. Now that I'm up and going about my morning business, I don't even notice the few that made it inside. That threshold of the need for peace is much lower when trying to sleep, I imagine.

 

Because of my push onto my cozy little cabin, there is little trail left to hike. I'm victim to the schedule of the train, however, as it is my ride back to Skagway, AK. So my options this morning are to hike a meager 3 miles to Bare Loon Lake, where I'm scheduled to be tonight, per my permit, or to finish off the trail and hike the final four miles to the ghost town of Bennett, where the train will arrive. It will arrive tomorrow at 3 pm, so either way, I'll be lollygagging around one lake or another. I figure I'll stay at Bear Loon, that way I'll still at least have some hiking each day, and likely the folks I met at sheep camp will rejoin me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just as I'm getting warmed up from the roughly 500ft of elevation gain after Lindeman, I start seeing the tent pads of Bear Loon. It turns out to be a stunning setting, perched on a rocky outcropping and overlooking a pristine lake complete with a few islands. Exploring a bit I realize there is another much larger lake on the backside of camp (the long narrow Lindeman lake from last night my map informs me) with an eager stream flowing from smaller to larger, and filling the trees with the sounds of crashing water. 

 

Again I'm laughing, setting up my tent before 10 am. The smiles fade quickly as I'm descended upon by a cloud of bloodthirsty mosquitos. This is worse than setting up in the rain! But I quickly finish the task and escape back uphill to the cooking area, which is mostly bug-free. I think to reapply my repellant as I get back to my pack, only to find I left the can back at the cabin. No sooner do I curse my fate and throw my head back, do I look up in the rafters of the cooking area and see a bright orange bottle of repellant left behind by another. Crisis averted. After putting food in the nearby locker I go to Stow some gear in my tent. Zipping it shut proves to be a problem. The zipper will make only about half its track before the teeth no longer bite, and no amount of coaxing seems to change its mind. Well crap. It might be a buggy night for me.

 

From this camp, I can see the storms slowly rolling this direction. The warm sun that I was napping in earlier is gone. The cloud cover has dropped the temperature noticeably as I start to hear the thunder. It very well may be a deluge tonight. Theres a chance the system will miss camp, but time will tell.

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The stormclouds do pop, but only briefly. And the group of weary hikers huddled under the shelter of the cooking platform barely notice as the jubilant camp stove cooked celebration dinner continues. Most of us made it over the pass yesterday, but for all of us this is the last night of the trail. Tomorrow holds an easy day down to an old church that is still standing from that frenetic, gold infatuated season... along with the train station that will take us back to our respective realities.

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For me, I'm reunited with a little trio that somehow became very dear to me. The gals I met at sheep camp, one of which lent me her shampoo. Very similarly to my time on the Appilachian Trail, strangers can quickly become family. these girls officially solidify their place in my heart over dinner, along with a new friend they made yesterday. He's very similar to me in hiking speed and style, and can cook a mean camp meal. The five of us are fast friends. 

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After dinner, it seems none of my gang is quite ready to be done. Going to sleep fast forwards the end of this journey and that is the last thing any of us want now, no matter how tough the summit may have been for each of them was yesterday. We organically break off into twos and threes to sit and soak up the views, and the conversations range from the 'getting to know you' stuff (but with genuine interest) to deeper confessions and fears and dreams. The members of the pairs and trios alternate as we move about finishing the last camp duties and we each have some meaningful time with each member of the little trail family. It certainly reminds me of thru-hiking. I do love this. 

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The hike out is to be expected, and rather quick. this leaves us with quite a bit of time to kill at the train station, but it is a welcome excuse to continue relishing in the weird trail magic that bonds strangers. The whole gang is eventually assembled and the story plays out similarly, with each member mingling almost as if at a sweat-stained dinner party. There's music from a bluetooth speaker, swimming and washing in Bennet lake and those still carrying any generously offer up the remains of their whiskey. Much of the talk begins to settle on food, which we all are becoming more fixated on as the train's arrival gets closer. Town does have some benefits I guess.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once the train does finally arrive, the dirty hikers are hustled onto the hiker car as the well-dressed tourists disembark to see the old church. We complete some of the required paperwork to cross the border once again and wait for the train to get underway. The seats are tight quarters, and with one seat flipped around the four of us are facing each other, bumping elbows and knees but no one complains. I find a bit of comfort in having people that have grown close enough to not mind being this close. We spend most of the trip on the platforms between our car and the car in front of us to lean from the side of the train and enjoy the sights of White pass. We see a beaver, a marmot, and a bear cub, amongst the tunnels and impressive wooden bridges and stunning vistas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Town provides us the world's best beer and high-calorie meal. It's always the best food coming off these adventures. Knowing how quickly this will all fade, I soak it up and once again find myself smiling ear to ear like a dope. I don't even care. 

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Physical tests, views that defy words, memories to cherish, plenty of laughs, and new friends made. I'm' thankful I decided to take my detour down to Skagway for this chapter. I'm a lucky man.

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