Cabin

Cabin 

There is a cabin on the north side of Tanana Valley State Forest a few hundred klicks past Tok on the Parks Highway.  There is only way to get to one of the most secluded places on the face of the earth and that is by snowmobile and only if there is at least a foot of snow on the ground.  It is nearly February, so you don’t have to worry about that, but the rest of the deal, you’d better be paying attention, because this terrain can be lethal to amatuers. You have to know what you’re doing out here, because Nature is cruel and what you don’t heed can eat you for dinner.  This frozen landscape is nothing but shadows and echoes, but I ride up on the cabin that I can see for over a mile since there is nothing else human out here. During the summer, this is known as the Thules where mosquitoes have been known to take down a moose. Now I know a lot of that is mythology and all, but I have been out in these parts hunting and have seen some of these parasites as big as my forearm.  

In my trailer I have a shortwave radio for emergencies, but I know by the time help arrives, I may be nothing but bear feed since it takes a few hours to get here or maybe days depending on the weather.  Right now, this place is peaceful with nothing but a soft wind blowing in from the north. It’s just than in a matter of minutes that caressing wind can turn into a howling monster bringing with it a deadly snow storm.  The wind here has no mercy and will find its way in through the spaces between the wooden planks of the cabin.  

I have also packed snowshoes that will be my main way of getting around here near the frozen Tanana River.  The pine and birch trees stick out of the icy ground like corpse fingers, reaching up for God’s mercy, but there is no mercy to be found.  Once the Russian fur trappers came out here looking for beaver pelts. Their thick fur sold for a king’s ransom, well worth the pain and suffering they endured in their efforts, but when Peter the Great, the czar of Russia sold this place to Secretary Seward, the newspapers dubbed this frozen wasteland, Seward’s Follies until a few years later when they found gold up on the Yukon and then waves of fortune seekers came to this place with hopes of striking it rich.  Of course few did, but by then there was a growing population of settlers up here.

Alaska is big and spread out with over three quarters of the entire population residing in Anchorage leaving the vast untamed wilderness to the adventure seekers like me.  Out here, the Grizzly Bears outnumber the humans almost ten to one and if you wander these forests enough, you are bound to encounter one of them up close and personal. If you are lucky and do not, you will not avoid an encounter with a moose.  These dumb, for the most part blind bastards have a mean temperment and a terrible habit of stomping anything they encounter in the woods into paste. I know a lot of guides who have a greater fear of these giant cousins of the elk than they do of any grizzlies.  Still you must keep in mind that Nature loves an ecological balance and there is a reason there aren’t more people living up here; humans are not welcome. If you stay, for whatever reason, you must be prepared.

For that reason, the next thing I remove from my trailer is a good pump action 12-gauge shotgun-like the Mossberg 500 with over two dozen boxes of shells.  My gun is loaded and ready for action as I put on my snowshoes and carry my rifle into the cabin.  Chad left the cold stone fireplace in the middle of the cabin filled with tinder and logs. In a few minutes, I have the first flames licking at the wood, a flicker of light in the dark cabin.  I hear the wood groan as the wind picks up outside. It is hard for me to realize that I am on the Arctic Circle, that imaginary line at the top of the world, where the sun does not rise above the horizon adding indirect light to an otherwise dark day.  It is two in the afternoon and already the sun has set, the promise of light now fading rapidly. Here in the polar region the extremes of light and darkness are evident. I light a lantern and can already feel the icy grip of the night take hold in this small cabin.

The wood in the fireplace is already crackling in the fireplace as I put vegetables and some venison in my dutch oven that I hang over the flames.  The lean dark red meat reminds me of a splendid shot that brought this buck down in late autumn when I was in the Matanuska Valley. The snow began to fall on the icy river, I could hear the sap in the trees start to freeze as I traversed over the rugged landscape.  Wearing my mukluks and parka with seal skin gloves, I could feel the icy wind bite into my skin like a steel trap. When the buck came into the clearing, I sighted him before pulling the trigger. It was a clean head shot that dropped him before he could take another step.  When I saw him fall, at that moment, I felt like a true Alaskan. Running up to the fallen beast, I took out my knife and field dressed my game but when I had a piece of the raw bloody meat in my hands, I raised it to my lips and bit off a raw sizable chunk. The meat still warm from its heartbeat, I could feel the blood drip off my chin.  I raised the meat to the metallic sky and shouted to God to witness my mastery. I laugh to myself as I think about it.

They say this is therapeutic, but it’s more than that.  Sitting in the cabin with my hands outstretched to the flames, I feel a kinship to an ancestor I never knew, never met, who shared this moment with me, not because it proved anything other than his survival of another day.  It is hard to imagine that during this ancient migration, they wandered this tundra with little in tow and conquered the arctic blast that now sweeps across my cabin, rattling the windows, blowing a stiff breeze down my chimney as I sit in the flickering shadows and contemplate the connection I have with the primitive people migrating across this forbidding land.  I could say I want to leave my mark on this isolated place on earth, but the deeper truth is this land leaves an indelible mark on my soul. When I return to the civilization I left behind two days ago, I will have the mark left on me by this wilderness and I will count myself one of the chosen. Tomorrow I will stow my gear in the snowmobile trailer and head for the high country where the air is crystal clear, you put a scarf over your face so your lungs won’t freeze when you inhale.  As the sun again battles a losing fight with the horizon, the temperature will not rise above forty degrees below zero, a temperature so frigid it is said when you throw a cup of coffee from your cup it will freeze before it hits the ground.

I pull my sleeping bag over my entire body as I lay out in front of the fire.  I have set my alarm for three hours so I can rise and put more fuel on the fire, because if it is extinguished, I will never wake again, my soul claimed by the god of the north wind.  There are many Inuit legends about this god. I have heard many stories in my time. They say freezing to death, hypothermia, is much like going to sleep and not waking up, it is a peaceful end or so they say.  I do not wish to have such an end, so I will be sure to rise and put some more logs on the fire. There is a cord of wood stacked near the fireplace and I am grateful it is there. 

Out here Nature does not allow any mistakes.  Out here, I am not in charge and perhaps that is the one thing that intimidates most people.  Out here people fly in helicopters to shoot wolves that are running in the deep snow. There is no victory in that.  It is mechanical, predictable, no sport in the hunt, just pull the trigger and watch the beast disappear in the snow.  Sometimes they don’t even bother landing as it is too difficult to do such a thing and so the wolf is left to the elements and the scavengers clean the bones once the snows melt.  What purpose does this serve.  

It is dark.  The flames are embers when I place a couple more logs on the fire. Within a few minutes tongues of fire are licking the newest offering.  The warmth melts the chill in the air and once again I feel the pulse of the cabin return. I say a quick prayer and return to my bedroll.  When the sun returns to the sky, in this forest reserve along the Tanana River, I have heard the ice groans as it melts.  

Don’t tell me this place is lifeless in the winter, I know different and while the cold encompasses all living things, the fact is, the cold preserves life in a hibernation so that when the warm winds blow, life returns to this place in abundance to once again claim victory over the land once again.

In the morning, I stow my gear in the trailer as I prepare for the trip to the high country before returning to Tok and then to my home down on the Kenai.  

Silence.

Silence itself speaks to those who practice listening.  In the absence of noise, you can hear a symphony in perfect syncopation.  Why do we feel it necessary to fill the void with static? Why can’t we be content with the stillness that is a salve to our souls.  Once I have my gear stowed, I sit on the seat of my snowmobile and close my eyes.

I will come back.  That much is certain, because this place is my sanctuary and my solice.  There are no rules out here. No survival of the fittest, no king of the hill, just the satisfaction that at this moment in time, I am alive, more alive than I’ve ever been.  I see an eagle on the branch of a naked tree, staring at me with an unrelenting stare. Opening his wings he suddenly takes flight with a screech. 

I start up my machine, the engine sputters and coughs before coming to a steady beat.  Twisting the control, the tread grips the snow and ice and lurches me forward. With the spray of snow, I catch a final glimpse of the cabin in my rearview mirror.