Death is only a misstep away for trappers in the frozen wilderness of Alaska. But for these hard-core few, it's simply part of the job.
Jan 24, 2005
The aurora borealis stretches across the northern sky with ribbons of cold, green flame shining through the Alaska night. Countless stars burn bright, their light reflected in the snow around the cabin where Richard Gardner is already up and dressing for work.
Richard is an uncommon man who doesn't fit society's mold for success. He never attended college, yet the house he built with his own hands in Delta Junction, Alaska, is paid for in full. At 43, he owns
several homesteads, each with an airstrip and cabins he built himself. He can talk electrical engineering yet dresses in a suit of beaver skin, goose down and Carhartt. His profession? Wilderness trapper.
Twenty-four years ago, Richard arrived in Alaska with nothing but a few dollars and a dream to hunt and trap North America's last frontier. I was one of the first people to help him get started; now I was going to spend a week with him to see how far he had come.
Day One
Richard hugs his kids, kisses his wife, Maureen, and tells her that he loves her before he walks out the door. He doesn't think about the possibility that he might never see her again when he leaves for work. A wilderness trapline is a hazardous place, and injury or death is ever present. If he fell through the ice on the treacherous Tanana River, there would be no one to save him.
He runs three traplines, each covering 40 to 60 miles. With the end of the season upon him, he's running only one line now. Set along the Tanana River Flats, it takes five days to work the 60-mile stretch of remote river slough country by snowmobile.
John Gardner, Richard's brother, neighbor and business partner, is loading the trucks for departure when we arrive. Gas tanks, snowshoes, cables, ropes, waterproof bags, food, tools and sleds are piled into the back of two well-worn pickups. After the trucks are loaded, we drive to the head of a fire trail, where we transfer the gear to snowmobiles for the 10-mile trek to the start of Richard's trapline. The 17-below-zero temperature and the brisk wind send the chill factor plunging to 32 below.
We don't go far when John's snowmobile loses power and dies, the result of a blown track bearing. He always carries spare parts, but not this one. With no other options, John hops on Richard's sled. They'll tow John's machine home on the return trip.
We follow a narrow, two-mile trail that snakes through a forest of birch and spruce and dead-ends at a series of beaver ponds. Natural springs flow year-round, keeping the stream open in some spots and the ice thin in others. The Gardners carefully skirt the edge
of the water and set several snares
for beaver. Both men are excited about the prospects.
"Hopefully, we'll have a couple of beavers in a few days," John says.
We emerge onto a series of willow-lined backwater sloughs. Some are harmless remnants of rivers that once were. Others are winter sirens that lure trappers with the prospect of easy, brush-free travel.
"Sloughs are notorious for collecting overflow," Richard points out. "The sub-zero cold pushes up groundwater, which seeps onto the ice under the insulating layer of snow and keeps it from freezing. It might get worse. Just keep going, no matter what."
As if on cue, the deep snow around him begins to sink. Richard revs his snowmobile's engine. John jumps free of the sled and pushes the floundering snowmobile as I try to keep my machine running behind them. The overflow deepens until the icy quicksand sucks both our snowmobiles all the way down to the gears.
Richard disconnects his sled. We free his machine and he quickly disappears up the slough to search for another route to the cabin.
We require
all participants in interactive areas to accept the terms of the Bonnier Corporatin. subscriber agreement. Please
read the agreement
before making comments. When you click on the button above to submit your comments, you are indicating your acceptance of and
are agreeing to adhere to the terms of the subscriber agreement.
RELATED ARTICLES
