Waking in Denali... troubled.

My beautiful basin camp is just as wonderful in the morning when I wake. The tent is only half-packed when a trio of caribou come running along the valley just below me and swiftly gallop up the ridge and then swing directly into camp. With my camera in hand, I've hit my stomach in some combat pose, hoping they'd ignore me. They get quite close, but catch my scent on the wind and stop their run, looking quizzically my way. After a couple tentative sniffs, they veer their course to give me a slightly wider berth and happily cruise along their way. I'm just another animal living in Denali National park for the moment. Not every morning do I get a perspective enhancing wake up like this. Sitting in my gratitude, I finish packing up and then push off along the ridge to my right. I've imagined a route along that arm, up to the peak and down its southern spine. We'll see what all that looks like once I crest the first peak and can see what lay beyond.

The climb is invigorating and exhausting. The soft ground served for a perfect sleep last night, why do I feel so worn out? I did stay up a while reading... it's so hard to tell what the hell time it was when I finally turned in with this light. Oh well, I push on and just end up taking a few more breaks than I would have expected. Perhaps it's just poor route finding, taking the steeper, more direct route and not doing much for switchbacks.

I take my caribou friend's unspoken advice and climb the next rise along the game trail up to the left. It eventually gains this next, higher ridge rewarding me with a distant view down to a snowy patch with nearly a hundred caribou milling about. I assume they were getting something from the snow, high elevation water perhaps, to avoid the streams lower down? Regardless, I admire them down in the newly revealed valley below me and move on along the ridge. My plan is essentially to do this ridge walking and peak to peak hiking, circling a valley down to my right. If I can cross the back wall of this valley and hike out onto the neighboring ridge, there is another valley on the other side. Either one of them contains a creek that will flow north back to a larger river near the road. So, I'm thinking I keep stringing the peaks together as long as the terrain allows, find camping when I'm so inclined and eventually descend into a valley when I'm ready to start the return trip.

I love the freedom of this loose plan, exploring what strikes me and either taking my time or pushing hard as I see fit. Denali is my playground and my trip is only limited by my curiosity and willingness. But as I form my route in my head, and envision it laid out on my map I find myself wishing someone was with me to debate the route. As much as accommodating another person's interests and abilities on a trip can be a point of contention for some, it would be welcome today. Sure, I could make it to that ridge. Yeah, it looks a bit challenging but I'm sure it's passable, or if not, I see a decent plan B. I'll bet there is decent camping with that wonderful soft tundra too. And, I'll bet it'll be beautiful. Probably see more caribou and get another peek at Mt Denali. But what's the point? I'd love to be able to sit and catch my breath on one of these cliffs and look to the person next to me with silent recognition. At this point, staying out here another day will amount to a couple more fleeting memories of me walking alone in a wonderful place, a thing I've now done quite a bit of, while I think about the absence of a partner here. Somehow my lack of an "other" is working to invalidate my experience out here, at least on some level.

With all that in mind, I decide not to spend a second night camping. Once I make it to the second valley, I eyeball a route to descend the arm that separates the two valleys, keeping to the high ridge as it tapers toward the road. Time to head back, I convince myself and start heading that way. This ridge "cliffs out" rather quickly, creating steep and sudden drop-offs, making the route a bit more dangerous than I would have liked. Maybe it's passable, or it could just get even more challenging as I go. time for plan b. Looking down to my right into the first valley and left into the second, I can only visualize a route safely down into the second. That decides that. Downward I go, scrambling down a loose field of scree with tiny rocks that love to jump into my shoes.

Heading downwards is always faster than the climb for me. Thankfully, my knees have been able to stand up well to this kind of abuse. The rapid descent starts to reach a more reasonable slope as I reach a creekbed. There must be a mineral deposit the water flows through because it comes out a strange orange color and stains the rocks an even more unsettling red. It is not unlike a bloody creek I follow for about a half mile or so. Eventually I decide it must be iron that is to blame and that it is much more rust-like than blood-like.

A small valley joins into mine, with its own stream of water that is surprisingly clean and clear. the two merge into one and the red takes over. Following the now larger creek, the rocks are slowly giving way to more vegetation. A bit of tundra, a bit of wildflowers. The creek clears up as well and grows in size. It is becoming decidedly river-like, and as one side or the other cliffs out and becomes a sheer wall, I'm forced to cross, which is becoming more difficult. Seeking to keep my feet dry, I hike up and out of the valley with considerable effort. But, this puts me on a nice roll of tundra for a mile or so. This little arm peters out and I'm back down in the ever-growing riverbed. I'm forced to keep crossing occasionally, playing the rock hopping game to stay dry. Eventually, seeing only increasingly sketchy hops and jumps on wet rocks, I just say screw it and wade across when I need to. It beats taking a spill into the river, bruising something more than my ego and dunking my whole body and pack. Once my feet are soaked, it's freeing to be able to cross with impunity. No careful route-finding required any longer, I hike down the side of the river, sometimes just splashing along the center.

I feel a little bad for "giving up" and leaving the backwoods a day early, but I simply wouldn't have enjoyed it I don't think. And a big part of me is already on the next adventure- hiking out to pay homage to Chris McCandless at the "magic bus". Refocusing on the current endeavor, I follow the water until it meets the large valley that contains both river and road. Not too long after I can spot a visitor's center up on the road and surmise that there should be a trail leading up to it from the water, making my trek up and out of the valley a little more straightforward. It took a little searching, and another wet footed water crossing, but I found it. It was steep, but at least the footing was easy and required no bushwhacking. Coming out at a somewhat crowded building ripped me from my solo communion with nature, but to be honest, I was happy to be done with my hike. Somewhat guiltily so.

The bus ride back out took some time to find one with an open spot for me, as well as the hours it took to slowly crawl out of the park at the bus's pace.