Happy New Year!

Happy New Year! I am beyond appreciative for those of you who tune in to my blog. I hope all of you have a 2014 full of new, unforgettable experiences. May your ambition lead you to places above and beyond your wildest imagination. May you love others, love the earth, and experience the fullest offerings that life has to offer. 

2013 was by far my best year yet for outdoor adventures. It included multi-night backpacking trips to the Grand Canyon, Mount Rainier, and the High Uintas of Utah, not to mention numerous other camping trips and day hikes. Unfortunately, I have yet to post about any of these adventures! That leads me to my New Year's resolution:

To get caught up on this blog! I continue to slowly chip away, but I am still a ways from being able to post about my most recent adventures. I fully plan on being caught up by the time 2014 ends. It will be a challenge, but one that I'm excited to take on. 

So long, 2013! You were a great year, but something tells me 2014 will be even better. There is always an excitement of the unknown that I feel at the end of each year. I have no idea exactly what 2014 will bring, but just thinking about the possibilities already have me wanting to fast-forward. 

Best wishes for the new year,

Mike

Angels Landing

By far the most famous Zion hike is Angel's Landing. The trail is 5 miles round trip with 1500 feet of elevation gain. While these stats aren't overly daunting, the trail isn't for the faint of heart. The first 2 miles climb steadily with many switchbacks, but the "hard part" is the last half-mile. After an area called Scout Overlook, the trail skirts across the spine of a huge rock slab, with drop-offs on both sides up to 1500 feet, before eventually dead-ending at an overlook with incredible views in every direction.

Chains have been installed intermittently across the "dangerous parts" by the National Park Service to give you something to hold onto. The trail is extremely popular and the most difficult part is safely avoiding hikers traveling the opposite direction. In most areas, this isn't too difficult, but there are narrow sections of the trail that can be tricky during high volume foot traffic.

 

Unfortunately, every now and then, there are fatalities on Angel's Landing. That fact alone discourages some people from attempting it. Although the hazards shouldn't be taken lightly, the trail is not overly difficult for a reasonably fit person that doesn't have an extreme fear of heights. I always just assume everyone else on the trail is an idiot, and I play it as safely as possible on the narrow sections. It's a great hike that I've done 3 times now, and I'd probably bet on myself going back some day.

Here are some highlights from my trips.

From my first trip, in August 2009 with friends Dustin and Ali:

(Yes, the trail goes over that, and it's not as bad as it looks.)

 

Dustin and Ali, making their way towards the top with a 1,000+ foot drop-off below:



Hanging out at the top: 

(On a side note, what was I thinking when I bought those sunglasses?)

Dustin, looking straight off the edge (much more daring than I am):

Spectacular views:

My last trip to Angel's Landing was with my girlfriend, Stephany. Here are some photos from that March, 2011 trip.

Just starting off, and looking up at what's ahead of us:

Looking up at the switchbacks before Scout Lookout. This series of 21 switchbacks is famously known as Walter's Wiggles.

 At Scout Lookout, the turnaround point for many: 

 (But not us.)

 

If you time it right during early spring, you might get some snowcapped views.

 

You just can't beat this:

The views alone are tough to match, and if you're looking for a bit of a thrill, you'll probably enjoy Angel's Landing. Just don't let anyone talk you out of it!

Zion Introduction

Zion National Park is one of the most impressive and recognizable places in the world. A first timer's drive through Zion Canyon might results in some serious neck cramps from admiring the enormity of the towering rock formations that draw almost 3 million visitors to the Park every year. Like many national parks, Zion offers a wide variety of recreational opportunities, including hiking, rock climbing, canyoneering, and the casual "sight seeing." You don't have to get too far into the backcountry to be impressed by Zion's geologic features.

About 13 million years ago, the Virgin River began to cut into the rising Markagunt Plateau. This marked the early stages of the formation of Zion Canyon. Today, Zion Canyon continues to get sculpted and carved by the Virgin River. The main forces behind this are flash flood events; common occurrences in the desert where rain is infrequent, but it can be torrential.

As a kid growing up in St. George, Utah, by far the closest National Park was Zion. Whenever my family had visitors, we would always take them into the Park. We'd usually spend about half a day in the Park, sightseeing and maybe doing a short hike or two. One hike, Weeping Rock, was usually our family's "go to." It leads to an overhanging arch with year-round water trickling through it and raining down below. It's a scenic hike, and refreshing in the heat of the summer (although you're not going to get much of a workout from it.) I've lost count of how many times I've hiked that trail over the years. More than 20, or at least that's how it seems.

All the way through high school, I continued making frequent trips to Zion, sometimes with friends, sometimes with family. However, most of these trips consisted of short, easy hikes. Scenic, but not overly memorable. It wasn't until I was in my early 20's that I finally did any "serious" hiking in Zion.

Over the past few years, I feel like I have been able to appreciate my Zion visits much more than I did when I was a kid. Having lived less than an hour's drive from the Park, I think I was somewhat oblivious to the unique beauty of Zion. Now, having seen many other national parks and returning to Zion, I see that it really is on par with some of the most amazing places in the country. No national park is quite like any other national park.

I'm still by no means a Zion expert, and I'm embarrassed to say that I've yet explore some of the Park's best terrain. One day I hope to expand my knowledge of Zion, and explore more of the Park's remote backcountry. Fortunately, I have checked out some of Zion's most scenic and popular areas. Most of the time, there's good reason for popularity (an adjective I try to avoid when hiking, but sometimes the appeal to too large.)

I hope you enjoy my Zion adventures. I'm sure these places will be familiar to some of you. For others, hopefully you'll see what kind of adventure and beauty Zion has to offer.

A Summer of Salmon

Many years before I became an avid hiker, my favorite outdoor activity was fishing. Growing up in Southern Utah, I have fond memories of my dad taking me fishing for bass and trout. When I was in high school, sports and other activities kept me preoccupied and my interest in fishing slowly fizzled out. However, in my late teens and early 20's, something revived my fishing enjoyment. My renewed interest led to me to spending many days and countless hours fishing for bass and trout in Southern Utah. I made an effort to research some of the best methods to catch fish and it paid off. The more fish I caught, the more addicted I was to fishing. Nothing could beat the adrenaline rush of feeling a tug on the end of my line and the anticipation of what might be hooked at the other end.

My passion for fishing remained until I left for Washington in 2010. It was during this summer that I became an avid hiker and backpacker, and fishing became less of a priority. I still enjoyed fishing, but more and more I found myself wanting to get out and explore and put some mileage on my boots, rather than dedicating a road trip to standing by a lake or river.

Then, I accepted a job in Alaska.

Early in the summer, fishing wasn't really on my radar. I was more excited to bag peaks and explore than to search for fish. Then, a couple of weeks after I arrived, I got a new roommate named Brett. It was Brett's second summer in Juneau and first since 2008, and he made it clear from the first day he moved in that the local fishing was pretty spectacular. This immediately sparked my interest and I knew I'd have to fit some fishing trips in on my days off, around the obvious hiking trips.

After buying a cheap rod/reel combo at the local Fred Meyer along with a few lures, I was anxious to hit the water and see what I might be able to reel in.

Most of my fishing time was spent at Auke Bay, which was the closest and most convenient place to Forest Service housing. We'd usually take the public bus to DeHart's, the local convenience store located right on Auke Bay. DeHart's had everything we needed to load up on supplies, and conveniently had two separate entrances: one for alcohol and fishing stuff, and the other for everything else. We usually didn't bother with the "everything else" section.


My first couple of fishing trips were pretty uneventful and I didn't catch anything. I quickly learned that even Alaska fishing can be a test of patience. It was pretty frustrating one day watching several other people reel in some big king salmon while I didn't catch a thing. Luckily, my persistence would eventually pay off.
There are five different types of salmon that come into the ocean shallows of Southeast Alaska before making their up streams and rivers to spawn. The early season spawners are the sockeye, king, and pink salmon (pinks are the most abundant and will continue spawning through the majority of the summer.)

My first successful fishing outing came in early July. This pink salmon was my first fish of the summer, and first salmon ever!

After that, things slowed down and not much was caught between me and my friends. We stuck with it though, and waited for the tide to start coming in. Along with it, so did the fish. We started to see some big salmon cruising the shoreline, no more than a few feet out. We'd usually add some length to our casts by wading into the water up to our knees too (surprisingly, the water wasn't very cold in Auke Bay). Suddenly, I felt a strong tug on my line and knew I had something big. I fought the fish to the shore, and several times it made runs, taking my drag before Brett could snag it with our net. I was worried that my cheap reel wouldn't hold up. Kings have a reputation of not being the best fighters, but this one wasn't coming in without some serious resistance. As I reeled, my reel gears felt and sounded as if they were cracking! Finally, I got the fish close enough to shore that Brett was able to scoop it into the net. I was happy with what we pulled out of the water. A nice king salmon! About 32 inches and fat.

Back home I normally catch and release, but I spent the extra money for a king salmon stamp when I bought my license and the temptation of cooking fresh salmon was too much. I kept it, along with pink I had caught earlier.

A size comparison between my pink and king salmon (my foot is a size 13, in case you were wondering.)

The next day, filleted the salmon and marinated it in a delicious concoction of soy sauce, brown sugar, lemon, and spices. That night, I took the salmon over to my friend Tim's house, and cooked it on his propane grill. It turned out pretty amazing, probably even better than I could have hoped for. There are few things more satisfying than catching your own fish, filleting it, and preparing/cooking it yourself. There was plenty to be shared with Tim and his roommates, and I was happy to offer it up. It was one of my most memorable experiences from Juneau.

As the summer went on, I continued fishing but it was hard to top the experience of catching my first king salmon. Soon, most of the kings and sockeye had spawned and most of the fish in Auke Bay were pinks (still fun to catch, but not nearly as delicious as most other salmon.) One day, I had a hard time not accidentally snagging a pink on almost every cast. It always made for a tougher fight but there became a point where that wasn't very fun.

Here's one of the many pink salmon that I reeled in over the course of the summer. This one is a male (which only get the hump after they come into the shallows and get ready to spawn.) That's why pink salmon are sometimes referred to as "humpies"

One day late in the summer I woke up early to go fishing with my roommate, Brett before work. For some reason, he had the hot hand that morning, and he caught several chum (AKA dog) salmon while I was completely skunked. Here's a look at one of them while he reeled it in.

The unique striping made these salmon unique from the other species. They were also known to be one of the worst salmon to eat, and were usually caught and released. The only one I caught all summer was an accidental snagging (which doesn't really count, in my book.)

I've yet to figure out what kind of fish this one was (it was quite a bit smaller than any of the salmon I caught) but it had a really weird wound, as if a predator took a chunk out of it. My guess is it was either from a seal or another fish.

One day, my roommate Brett and I got the genius idea of going out to Lena Point (north of our usual spot at Auke Bay) during low tide, casting out some bait as far as we could in hopes of maybe luring a halibut or some other type of large, deep sea fish to bite. Halibut are usually caught from boat, but the water at Lena seemed to drop off pretty deep right away, so it seemed reasonable that we could be in the depths of where halibut hang out. We cast out our salmon setup and set the rod down while rigging up another rod for salmon fishing. We checked on the rod periodically, and at one point Brett got my attention and pointed to the rod. Sure enough, the rod tip was bouncing around as if there was something hooked. I ran to the rod and started reeling in. Unfortunately, whatever was making the rod move seemed to have gotten away, and I just reeled my way into a snag. To this day, I wonder what was jerking the rod.

Later, we reeled in this sunflower seastar:

 Of course, it ended up back in the water, unharmed.

A while later, I got a phone call from my girlfriend. I decided I could use a break from fishing so I took her call and found a spot to sit down just up from the shore. About five minutes into my conversation, Brett got my attention and pointed into the water. My backpack was floating several feet out from shore! Although my backpack had been safe just a few minutes earlier, I had underestimated how fast the tide was moving in. I got off the phone and retrieved my backpack, and suddenly, a sense of panic set in. My backpack was unzipped, and among other things, my digital SLR camera had been inside (although not anymore.) I searched around the shore to no avail, and yelled out loud with frustration. Meanwhile, the tide was still coming in, and Brett was doing his best to help by hopping into the water and retrieving some of the fishing lures that fell out of my backpack. As he stood waist deep, he reached down, and one at a time retrieved several lures. I was happy for his efforts, but still...no sign of my camera.

I was super bummed out, but it could have been worse. My work keys were also in an unzipped compartment of my backpack, but somehow they didn't fall out. Phew!

After the tide had moved in far enough that there was no longer any hope of retrieving any other items, I sat there in disbelief for a few minutes before we decided to leave. I think Brett would have stayed longer, but he knew at that point I simply wasn't in the mood.

I had to work the next day, but Brett had the day off and offered to head back out to Lena Point to search for my camera. I had already come to terms with the fact that the camera was probably ruined (I hear that water isn't good for expensive cameras, let alone salty ocean water), but I was more interested in salvaging the memory card. We had just hiked to Mt. Jumbo a few days earlier and I had hadn't saved the pictures yet. During my lunch break I texted Brett and asked if he had any luck in finding the camera. His response: "It was dangling from a barnacle, above the abyss."

If you've read my Mt. Jumbo entry, you already know that the pictures were salvaged from the memory card. The camera? Not so much, but I already expected that.

The last of the five species of salmon to spawn in Southeast Alaska are the coho (AKA silver) salmon, and many people argue that coho provide the best fishing of all.

The coho were the only salmon species that eluded my roommate, Brett, during his previous summer in Juneau. His determination to catch a silver this time around rubbed off on me, and we spent multiple fishing trips in search of the silvers. Time and time again, though, we were eluded.

One day I got home from work, and Brett (who had just gotten home from fishing) was outwardly disappointed. When I asked how it went, he looked at me and shook his head. I asked "Let me guess, you had a silver hooked, and it got loose?", to which he replied "Mike, it's so much worse."
This is Brett's story, as I remember it:

He was fishing at Lena Point that day, and he saw a silver jump out of the water. He casted towards the splash and he immediately had a fish on. The fish was a great fighter and it took him a while to get it close to shore. Finally, the fish came into view: it was a silver! However, the shoreline was rocky and it was an awkward spot to hoist it out of the water. The fish wrapped itself around a rock where it broke his line, but the fish continued to lay there, stunned from the fight. Brett jumped into the water, grabbing the bit of line that was still attached to the fish and wrapped it around his wrist. As he tried to pull it out of the water, the line broke again. At that point, he tried hoisting the fish out in an underhand motion, but he was unable to push the fish to shore. Just then, the fish swam away. It was gone. Brett was beside himself. He glanced behind him to see some people that had observed the whole debacle, where he made eye contact and let out a booming scream. His first silver had literally slipped in and out of his hands.

Brett's story only added to my determination to catch a silver. A couple of weeks later, Brett finally caught his. He was so happy with the fish he couldn't bring himself to bring it home and eat it. He released the fish and his summer felt complete.

By then, the summer was winding down. Brett's season was over and he had left Juneau a few days prior. I still had a couple of more weeks remaining, and my dad came up for a visit from Utah.

Of course, I had to take him fishing.

We started where Brett had caught his silver about a week before at Montana Creek. After a couple of hours with only a small dolly varden that I inadvertently snagged by the tail to show for our time, I decided it would be wise to try somewhere else.

My dad had a rental car, and it was a good opportunity to go check out a place that I didn't have access to on the public bus. The area that encompasses the 45-miles stretch of road north of town that eventually dead-ends (referred to by locals as simply "out the road") had some great fishing and hiking spots. Unfortunately, the public bus didn't go that way. During a few occasions that summer, I was able to creatively find ways "out the road", but for the most part I was limited to the areas between the Mendenhall Glacier and downtown Juneau.

Located about 38.5 miles "out the road" is Cowee Creek, a place that I heard has good silver fishing. I had been there a few weeks before, only to find nasty pink salmon nearing the end of their spawn. Surely by now (mid-September) the silver spawn would be in full force. 

We parked by the Cowee Creek bridge and hiked along the Cowee Creek Trail. The creek was pretty overgrown so access points were limited. We tried to make the most of the few good spots we found.

The last time I was in the area, I saw a small black bear. Obviously, there were still bears around.

I had also heard of brown bear sightings in that area in years past, although for the most part, brown bears are uncommon around Juneau.

We found some good fishing spots and about half an hour into our trip, I felt a strong tug on my line. It had to have been something big. I fought it for a couple of minutes before getting it to shore where it appeared: a nice silver! Unfortunately, I was in a pretty awkward spot to land a fish. I got the fish close to shore, where my dad helped to hoist the fish out of the water. Then, I'm not exactly what happened, but it was nothing good. the fish got wrapped up in a log and snapped the line. Off it swam, lure and all. I yelled out with frustration and I remembered Brett's similar encounter when his silver got loose. I couldn't believe it. My dad obviously felt bad for me, but I didn't feel bad for myself. I just wanted to catch another.

Later, we made our way back towards the road as the creek became progressively trickier to access the further we hiked. After I lost the fish, my frustrations were made even worse by losing a couple of lures on bad casts. Now I was on my last pink Mepps spinner (which seemed to be the lure of choice.)

I was now casting into a wider, more open stretch of the creek. A few casts in, another fish hit my lure hard. It felt jut like the first, but his time, I was ready. This time, I had room to backpedal when the fish neared the bank. I had room to pull the fish a couple of feet out of the water, but even then, I was worried it would get loose. The embankment was sloped, and for a second the fish began to slide back towards the creek! Luckily, my dad was there to scoop it up and toss it up to level ground. Finally! And sure enough, it was a nice silver.

(Also, notice how well my beard had progressed from the beginning of the summer.)

The fish was about 28 inches long. A beauty, at least to me.

We were fairly rough with the handling of the fish, so I decided to take it home for dinner the following night. As for my dad, he didn't end up catching anything, but I give him just as much credit for that fish. I'm not sure I would have landed it without his help.

Unfortunately, my dad had to leave the next morning so he missed out on the consumption of the fish. At least I was still able to share it with some friends. It turned out every bit as delicious as the king salmon I caught earlier in the summer. Silvers are a little more lean than kings, but I found them to be equally tasty.

My summer would be ending soon. At that point, I was completely content with my summer accomplishments. I went on some awesome adventures, I caught and prepared some delicious fish, and I made some lifelong friends. What more can you ask for during a summer in Alaska? Well, there is a lot more, and I barely scratched the surfaces of all of Alaska's offerings. I have a feeling that one day I'll be back, experiencing more of Alaska, and making more friends. Even if I do, the summer of 2011 will be a tough one to beat.

A Heintzleman Adventure (and then some)

As the end of the summer drew near, I had yet to get a backpacking trip under my belt. By September, the weather had become progressively rainy, and the chances of getting good weather on my days off became progressively slim. Still, I didn't want a little rain to stop me from ending my summer on a high note. I had a two-day window where I had the same days off as two of my friends and co-workers, Tony and Jimmy. These guys had no lack of ideas when it came to their next trip, and often closely examined the Juneau area topo map for their next off-trail adventure. More than once, they pointed out middle-of-nowhere mountains on the map that they were interested in summiting. Many of these were not for the faint of heart and required some serious ridge traversing and/or scrambling. When planning a trip with me, it was no exception.

Nugget Mountain is a rugged peak that sits about nine miles up Heintzleman Ridge from the Thunder Mountain trailhead. It had the appeal of being a prominent destination along the ridgeline, and a close proximity to the Nugget Creek Glacier and Juneau Icefield. Our knowledge of this peak was very limited, and we knew the destination was extremely remote. We were excited for the challenge!

(Notice Heintzleman Ridge in the center of the map, and Nugget Mountain in the top right corner.)

FYI: Unfortunately, I didn't have my camera for this trip. I had an unfortunate fishing incident a few days prior (which I'll describe in my next blog post.) I'll do my best to recollect the events that occurred without photos. Also, this post will be long, and for good reason. If you're the type of reader that needs photos to correspond to every event in order to pay attention, you may want to skip this entry. However, I do encourage you to read, since this was one of my most memorable trips of the summer (for better and worse.)

As expected, we woke up the morning of our hike to some gloomy
weather. The trailhead was close enough to walk to from our housing, and along the way we made a stop at the liquor store. It was sure to get chilly at night, and there's nothing like a few swigs of whiskey to warm the belly!

We started up the Thunder Mountain trail towards Heintzleman Ridge, which is easily the steepest trail I have ever hiked. There are a couple of others in Juneau that compare, but for the distance of relentless stair climbing, Thunder Mountain takes the cake. There are many exposed tree roots that crisscross the trail which when wet (most of the time) become very slippery. I hiked Thunder Mountain multiple times that summer, and each time I ended up in the mud at least once.

When we rose above tree line, we bypassed Thunder Mountain's summit and continued traversing the ridgeline. Soon, there is a sketchy, steep ledge where someone had installed a rope. I trusted the strength of the rope more than my own scrambling abilities to propel myself up the precarious section. Having our heavy overnight packs on didn't make matters any easier. Luckily, we all made it up without much trouble, but it definitely got my heart pounding.

At this point, the name of the game was simply following the ridge. There was a faint trail in places, but we knew which way to go. At one point we split up, with me and Tony picking a route down and around some of high points on the ridge, while Jimmy chose to simply continue up and over these dips and mounds. After a little while it became obvious that there wasn't an "easy" way. In theory a hike along a ridge sounds pretty simple, but this one had all kinds of obstacles slowing us down.

And we still had a long, long way to go.

As the day went on, the weather progressively worsened and the ridgetop became socked in with clouds. We trudged along in the wind and rain, while only occasionally getting views of our surroundings.

By late afternoon, we were all tired and sick of hiking in the non-ideal conditions. We decided to only keep going until we found a good place to set up camp. Given the conditions, ideal camping spots were limited on the ridge, but we found a place that seemed to at least offer some relief from the rain and wind. We pitched our tent as soon as we could, and Tony used his tarp as an extra vestibule to shelter our gear. We borrowed the tent from the gear cache used by biologists any other Forest Service employees who take frequent overnight trips. I don't think any of us thought to make sure we had all the components, or to check that everything was functional. Luckily, everything was there, and the tent seemed to be decently sturdy and waterproof.

As the three of us lay crammed in the tent (a three-person, but a tight one) we started scheming about our plans for the next day. After examining the map, we decided we had only made it about one-third of the way to our desired destination. It seemed pretty unrealistic to make it all the way to Nugget Mountain and back the next day, but we still decided to give it a try. We went to bed early with an alarm of 4:00 set for the next morning.

The rain pelted our tent all night, and at one point I woke up with the top of my sleeping bag soaking wet. Someone had forgotten to zip up the vestibule, allowing all kinds of rain to get inside. Soon, the 4 AM alarm went off. We all continued lying there, and although nothing was said, we clearly weren't motivated to get up.

About an hour later, we finally broke the silence and unanimously decided that Nugget Mountain simply wasn't going to happen. Not this time. We stepped outside to the (still) gloomy weather, packed up our tent, and reversed our course along the ridge.

But the adventure doesn't end there.

We had heard that there is a way to navigate off trail from Heintzleman Ridge to the north towards Nugget Creek, and eventually drop down into the drainage and run into the Nugget Creek Trail. We studied the contours of the map, and we decided on a route that looked doable. We found our spot, and began scrambling down off the ridge and into a drainage. It felt like we were starting a whole new adventure.

We followed a small creek that ran along the bottom of the drainage. This part was fairly simple with the exception of having to bushwhack through extremely wet and slippery vegetation. Tony and I both took multiple awkward tumbles. After a while, it actually got to the point where it became humorous!

From the map, it appeared that we could follow this creek until it drained into Nugget Creek, which was where we were aiming. Something went wrong (and by something, I mean our map reading.) Eventually, this little creek turned into a waterfall with a sheer cliff. No way down there.

We contoured around the cliff, looking for any easier way down. We found what looked like a better way, but then we came to another sheer drop-off. This continued for about two hours: hike to a drop-off, look for a better way (and repeat.) After a while, this got old, and it seemed like we were gaining minimal ground.

At this point, I started to get nervous. We were pretty much past the point of return (we would have had to gain a ton of elevation to get back to the ridge), and we were so focused on finding our way down to Nugget Creek, I'm not even sure if we could have successfully retraced our steps. Even though our roommates knew that we were hiking to Nugget Mountain and to expect us back that night, this leg of our trip wasn't planned for. Nobody would know where to find us if we got lost. Luckily, we started early enough that I was optimistic that we had plenty of daylight to find our way. Still, the tough route finding combined with the endless rain was starting to weigh on me. By now, we were all pretty much soaked through all our "waterproof" gear: jackets, pants, and boots. Every step was a slosh.

Finally, we found a way down that looked hikable. It was quite the slope, and it was sure to require some serious clinging to trees and other debris for support, but it was our most promising sign yet of reaching Nugget Creek.

We started down, and after about an hour of tough, slippery footing and stumbling over slash, we finally reached the bottom of the slope (and what we assumed to be the Nugget Creek drainage.)

Much to our pleasure, we were immediately greeted by a vast field of devil's club (for those unfamiliar: a large plant that is very spiny and painful when touched.)

Although bushwhacking through the spiky stuff was a pain, the flat ground was somewhat of a relief. It was slow going, but we continued navigating to the north. If we were where we thought we were, it shouldn't be long before we ran into Nugget Creek trail.

We didn't see the trail until we were pretty much right on top of it. We were still a good 4 miles away from the trailhead, but we all breathed a huge sigh of relief. At that point, a trail was luxury. We could put our heads down and hike. No bushwhacking, no navigating, no stumbling over debris. Just a trail.

The Nugget Creek trail hooked us up with the East Glacier trail, and from there it wasn't far from the trailhead. It would take us out near the Mendenhall Glacier (where I worked), and when we reached the trailhead, we decided to step in the visitor center and share our adventure with our co-workers. Our supervisor seemed thoroughly impressed with our navigation abilities (which is funny, because they let us down more than anything.) It also gave us a chance to take shelter from the rain and hitch a ride back to our bunkhouse.

It was one of my most memorable trips of the summer. It was one that challenged us physically and mentally, and there were moments where I wasn't having a whole lot of fun. At the same time, I wouldn't change a thing. Doing things that are difficult often make for the best life experiences, and the best stories to tell later on.

The summer would be coming to an end soon, and this trip put the icing on the cake.

Mt. Juneau

When I think back to my summer in Juneau, most of my best memories involved the awesome company that I surrounded myself with. I made several lifelong friends that summer, and most of them accompanied me on my adventures at one time or another.

That being said, I also enjoy getting out by myself every once in a while. Company is always preferred, but solo adventures can also be extremely rewarding in their own way. I often find that I notice things while alone that I might overlook if my attention is diverted to the person (or people) that I'm with. To me, every sense feels more enhanced if I am able to fully focus on my adventure.

One of the only times all summer that I got out for a solo trip was a trek up Mt. Juneau, which is one of the closest mountains to downtown Juneau.

Mt. Juneau stands at 3,576 feet, and the trail to the summit is only about two miles long. The last stretch is especially steep, and requires hand over hand scrambling. This is definitely one for more advanced hikers, but it doesn't require a full day (for most) simply because of the fairly short distance.

The route up Mt. Juneau starts on the Perseverance Trail for the first mile before coming to the Mt. Juneau junction. Once on the Mt. Juneau trail, you steadily climb switchbacks and start gaining significant elevation. The trail actually flattens out for a while as it skirts around the mountain's flank. Here's a look at this area (look closely and you can see the trail begin to climb straight up the mountain in the distance):

I stopped just before the trail began to ascend again to evaluate the last push to the summit. It was straight up and steep, but I knew what I was getting myself into.

What appeared to be the summit in the above photo actually turned out to be false. After cresting it, the true summit finally came into view.

 

The last stretch was tough, and there were a couple of times when I felt myself sliding downhill as I tried to propel myself up the trail. It was tough going, but I knew the summit views and feeling of accomplishment would be well worth the effort.

 

I put my head down and focused on putting one foot in front of another, and before long, I was at the summit.

 

Looking towards the Gastineau Channel:

As I was enjoying the view, a wall of low, wispy clouds came floating past.

Old structure on the summit:

I wandered the summit for a while, enjoying the phenomenal views in every direction.

 

As I started back down the trail, I couldn't help but snap a few more pics.



Douglas Island, with Admiralty Island sticking up beyond: 

I like how clouds always add a unique perspective to any view.

Continuing downward, a good look at the steepness of some sections of the trail:

I finished the hike, thoroughly enjoying the time alone and the opportunity to connect with one of Juneau's most accessible mountains.

Mount Jumbo

When thinking back on all the memorable and scenic hikes from my summer in Juneau, perhaps none were as spectacular as the hike to the summit of Mt. Jumbo (also known as Mt. Bradley).

Mt. Jumbo had the special appeal of being the highest point on Douglas Island. Since I was without a vehicle for the summer and my transportation options were limited to the public bus and my mountain bike, finding my way to Douglas Island wasn't especially ideal. I had heard great things about the hike, and I felt dumb to not take advantage of any opportunities to explore new areas. The hike was sure to be well worth the inconvenience of finding my way to Douglas.

A mix of friends/roommates and I took the bus to Douglas, which didn't turn out to be as big of an ordeal as I thought it would be. Once we were there, I realized that my map didn't show the streets in great detail so the exact location of the trailhead was a bit of a mystery. After a few blocks of wandering, we finally found it.

The trail started off in a dense evergreen forest, and for the first mile, the elevation gain was gradual, and even fairly flat in some areas. Of course, I knew that wasn't going to last long. Like most trails leading to peaks around Juneau, Jumbo didn't mess around with switchbacks, and instead tackled the contours head on. The hike starts near sea level before rising over 3300 feet in 2.6 miles.

My camera stayed in my backpack for most of the hike as I focused on the relentless elevation gain. The trail was one of the steepest in the Juneau area and rivaled Thunder Mountain and Mt. Juneau for most elevation gained in such a short distance. All of these trails required areas of scrambling, and if they were much steeper, I'd classify them as more of a "climb" than a "hike".

The day started out very overcast (like most days in Juneau). As we neared the summit, the clouds began to break up, and a feeling of being in amongst them was the new reality. We could see across the channel and into downtown Juneau.

A different perspective:

Soon, we reached the summit, where more awesome views were to be had.

We found a good resting spot at the summit, where Brett took a previously concealed 6-pack of Kokanee beer out of his backpack and handed them out to the group. It was a pleasant and tasty surprise. A summit view is tough to beat, but a summit view while enjoying a beer with good company is unsurpassed.

The crew (left to right): Lauren, Tony, Peter, and Brett:



The official summit shot (Brett, me, Tony, Peter):

It was truly an awesome day to hang out on top of a mountain. Great company, great scenery, and great beer. What more could you ask for? Not much, in my book. 

Mount McGinnis

By mid-July, the high elevation trails around Juneau were melted out and ready to be explored. Of all the mountains in the Juneau area, the most popular to climb among avid hikers is Mount McGinnis, which towers over Mendenhall Lake and Mendenhall Glacier. McGinnis stands at 4,228 feet, and is the highest peak in the area that actually has a trail leading to the top (although much of it is not maintained). The hike gains about 4,000 feet of elevation, and its round-trip distance is about 10.8 miles.

I had discussed climbing McGinnis with my roommate, Brett, for several weeks and I was excited to make it happen. Also joining us was our other roommate, Mike, and a co-worker, Jimmy. After enjoying a high-calorie pancake breakfast, we were ready to get started.

One of the nice things about mid-summertime day hiking in Alaska is that you don't have to get off to a ridiculously early start to have plenty of daylight. We were at the trailhead by 11:00, and that seemed plenty early, even for a long, strenuous hike.

The route up Mount McGinnis starts with the West Glacier Trail, which runs along the base of Mount McGinnis and west of Mendenhall Lake and The Glacier. The trail provides an awesome and unique vantage point of these features.

A river of ice:

The West Glacier Trail itself is a fine day hike, even without continuing onward to ascend McGinnis.

At the end of the West Glacier Trail, we had travelled about 3.5 miles and gained 1300 feet. At this point, we had covered most of the distance required to reach McGinnis' summit, but had barely made a dent in the elevation - we still had 2700 feet to climb in 2 miles!

The end of West Glacier marks the end of the maintained trail leading to the summit. From there, a section of rock cairns and flagging marks the way before an obvious (although unmaintained) trail becomes evident again. Novice hikers should turn around at the end of the West Glacier Trail to avoid losing their way.

This section of trail wastes no time in climbing, and some sections are steep, requiring some hand over hand scrambling.

A nice flat spot in the woods near a creek seemed like the ideal place to take a lunch break. Brett enthusiastically chowed down on his leftover pancake; sure to provide him with much needed energy to reach the summit.

We continued after refueling, and it wasn't long before we rose above tree line. For the first time since leaving West Glacier, the Mendenhall and the mountains beyond came into view.



Bright blue glacial ice: 

Rugged peak beyond the glacier:

Once above tree line, the trail continued its relentless ascent. We climbed several false summits before what had to be the real one finally came into view. I was feeling the burn in my legs and starting to lack energy, but I knew that there would be a great feeling of satisfaction at the summit.

 

I focused on the final ascent, and simply putting one foot in front of the other. Trying not to get the mind in the way of the task at hand can work wonders. At that point, the summit seemed to sneak up on me. I glanced up and I was practically there. A few more tired steps got me to the top, which was followed by the inevitable feeling ultimate relief.

 

The summit views were as expected. Spectacular.

Looking west, towards the Gastineau Channel:

I was the second one in our group to reach the top, and the other

two weren't far behind.

 

After the four of us caught our breath, we did a little more exploring of the summit. We were pleasantly surprised by a small herd of mountain goats, including this one with some kind of radio collar or tracking device around its neck:

We enjoyed the summit views for a few more minutes before deciding it was time to start our long hike down.

 

On our way down, we took a wrong turn on a social trail that led us nowhere. Instead of backtracking and looking for the real trail, we continued, bushwhacking through thick vegetation and hoping to find our way down. No such luck. After about 30 minutes of wandering aimlessly, we decided we'd be better off finding the trail that led us astray and backtracking. After more bushwhacking, we found the trail and retraced our steps. Sure enough, we found the junction for the real trail no more than 50 yards back the direction we came from. If only we'd done that to begin with... (lesson learned!)

 

We lost some time and exerted effort by getting off track, but the bigger concern was the ankle of my roommate, Mike. He'd aggravated it when we got off trail, and each step was a struggle. We proceeded slowly downhill, stopping every few minutes to let our injured hiker catch up. We didn't want to get too far ahead of him, and it was becoming obvious that the hike down was going to take a while. We continued, taking frequent breaks. The last thing we wanted was for our friend to hurt his ankle even worse and have to send for help.

 

I was somewhat relieved when we reached West Glacier. We were at least back to a maintained trail, and most of the elevation was behind us. It was still a very long and slow trek for our friend, and some steep sections made things a bit nerve wracking.

 

He was a trooper, though, and when we got closer the terrain got flatter and easier, and Mike was in much better spirits.

 

When we reached the trailhead, it was after 9 PM, at least 2-3 hours later than it would have been had it not been for the obstacles. Most importantly, we all made it back safely. We were all starving, and we went straight to Subway for dinner. A foot long sub has never tasted so good, or been devoured so quickly.

 

It was a long, tough, mentally and physically draining day, but not a day to be forgotten. Despite the obstacles, McGinnis was definitely one of the highlights of my summer in Juneau.

 

A look at McGinnis and Mount Stroller White early in the season from the south side of Mendenhall Lake (McGinnis is the peak on the left):