Christopher Batin

Trapping the Last Frontier

outdoorlife-editor — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 12:26:35 -0400

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.

[pagebreak]
John and I ease into the icy slush. The sled is cold-welded to the overflow and won't budge. We use snowshoes as shovels, clearing a path through the icy slop that has filled our vapobarrier bunny boots. Slush quickly washes back into the path and begins to harden. John assembles the hand winch, latches a hook to the sled and slogs over to the bank. There, he attaches the cable to some smallish trees, which immediately snap as the winch tightens the cable. Back to work, we tie several ropes together to extend the cable's reach to larger trees. Ropes stretch and snap in the cold. John doubles up the rope, but we can only winch a few feet of cable before having to retie it. I'm wet to my knees, but try to stay busy removing the slush accumulating ahead of each runner.

We take turns ratcheting the handle an inch at a time, finally extracting the sled and snowmobile 30 feet from the slough onto an elevated bank. We buried the sleds at 1 p.m. It is now 7:30, and Richard hasn't returned.

My ice-laden snowmobile bogs down repeatedly in the powdery, waist-deep snow, but at least we have it out of the slough. To make our way, we chop a trail through thick willows. In a half hour we only go 20 feet. Meanwhile, the temperature plummets. Ice has frozen to our pants, adding pounds
to every step. As John and I discuss building a fire, we spot the headlight of Richard's struggling snowmobile flickering through the spruce 200 yards away.

His engine revs and bogs down repeatedly as a string of profanity snaps the cold like a whip. Richard finally plunges forward on snowshoes, slashing a swath with his chainsaw through the thick brush. He has just spent hours cutting a trail through the once impenetrable thicket. Finally, we connect.

We are beginning to freeze. Despite the long hours it took Richard to cut his way to us, it takes us only 14 minutes to power back to the cabin.

Once inside, we leap into action. John grabs a hammer and flails away at his overalls, snow and ice calving out of his pant leg. We quickly set the wood-burning stove to a roar as it devours a load of spruce. John presses his iced leg zippers against it, searing his overalls. The ice hisses into vapor as his pants become pliable once again.

Finally down to our long underwear, we're comfortable in the heat of the cabin. We have a quick dinner of chili and pilot bread before turning in for the night. There are no listeners to Richard's stories this time. John is already asleep and snoring.

Day Two

At 30 below, the sunrise coats the earth in a meringue of orange hoarfrost so delicate a whisper might shatter it. Unfortunately, some things don't shatter as easily. A sheath of ice encases the sleds and snowmobiles. After breakfast, Richard walks out and goes to work.

I watch him chisel ice off the pulleys and wheels like a sculptor removing excess stone. My snowmobile won't start. Richard and John remove their beaver mitts and check the spark plug, then the carburetor. They exchange delicate springs and screws, knowing they have only minutes before their
fingers lose sensation. The repairs are made. With three pulls the engine starts.

[pagebreak]
The first trap is located on the edge of a frozen creek. Richard's high-stepped gait through the snow quickens as he nears the first snare. He's caught a huge river otter. His exuberance shines bright and will help offset the disappointment of empty sets the remainder of the morning. We ride river and woodland trails, checking wolf, fox and otter sets. The stretch of meadow and forest
produced some good fur earlier in the season, but today the sets are empty.

At day's end, we arrive at the second cabin. Icy wind whistles through gaps between the logs. A caribou hide keeps heat from escaping through some damage caused a while back by marauding bears. Floorboards creak and dip where rodents have dug beneath them. Critter droppings litter the shelves like confetti. For trappers finishing a hard day's work in 20-below temperatures, such primitive accommodations never looked better. Dinner is a simple meal of noodles and sausage.

Day Three

When we wake, the temperature is 23 below...in the cabin. The frames of my glasses burn my temples, and the water bottle under my sleeping bag is filled with ice. My boots have frozen solid.

John crawls toward the stove still in his sleeping bag and builds a fire. Morning grub is two cups of instant
oatmeal and coffee. Richard's breakfast philosophy is simple. "Food must be fast and quick," he says.
"Saves fuel and time. There's enough work without adding needless kitchen chores." Water is too precious for washing a cup, so he uses disposable dishes and plates.

The only catch of the day is a fox. With the end of the season upon us, we pull the remainder of the traps and head to the cabin. In the lantern light, Richard skins the fox on his bunk and begins to talk. He tells me about one time when his snowmobile broke down in a blizzard, leaving him with only one chance for survival.

"I huddled by an open campfire, toasting on one side and freezing on the other. I knew what I had to do, and at daybreak, I put on snowshoes and started walking in snow up to my waist. I made the twenty-six miles to my house in under eleven hours," he says.

Day Four

At this time of year, there is no sunrise, only a gradual lightening of the sky. The all-encompassing fog transforms
a massive burn-a desolate stretch of charred, frozen terrain-into a void of wind, air and sound. Birds are conspicuously absent. The snow is trackless.

[pagebreak]
Lines of blackened spruce angle in all directions. Richard searches for his emergency camp, consisting of a barrel of provisions, a tent, snares and equipment. It's proving difficult to find. We venture off the trail and deadfall threatens to impede our progress in every direction. Richard urges caution.

"John and I have had too many close calls where we missed getting impaled by inches. Go slow and be ready to dodge," he says. He finally locates his metal drum hanging in a charred spruce near the edge of the burn.

Day Five

The morning is spent pulling wolf snares and traps. Wolves can bite through the springs of smaller traps or snap chains with their lunging, so all of the wolf traps have heavy-duty chains with huge-pronged anchors. The brothers have little concern that a wolf could pull itself from their traps. In fact, their strangest catch is also their largest.

"The Army was conducting maneuvers and some tanks were following one of my trails," Richard recalls. "We were checking traps on foot one day and walked up to a small-unit support vehicle. It was the size of a tank. Seems my trap caught its tread and crippled it.

If one of our sets can stop a tanklike vehicle, it can hold a wolf."

We stop on a bluff overlooking theinner is a simple meal of noodles and sausage.

Day Three

Day Five

Bear Guide Down

outdoorlife-editor — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 12:26:33 -0400

For three weeks, hunting guides Jim Bailey and Jesse Gray had been guiding
spring brown-bear hunters near the southern tip of the Alaska Peninsula.

After their clients left with their trophies, the pair planned to hunt the
remaining days of the season themselves. Unfortunately, a three-day storm
kept the men in their tents and the bears in the alder thickets.

An opening in the overcast skies provided the visibility Bailey needed to get airborne and avoid being stranded for several more days. Gray stuffed gear into the rear of the P-11 Cub, while Bailey conducted an inspection before the long flight to Anchorage.

Once airborne, Bailey searched for a route through the soup of low-hanging clouds and patchy fog that swirled around them. The clear sky they took off into was nothing more than a sucker hole. The fog was thickening and a massive snowstorm was rolling in from the Bering Sea. There were no landing spots on the boulder-strewn beach. As the plane flew through the slop, icy slush accumulated on its wings and fuselage, making the aircraft unresponsive. Bailey was piloting a snowball with wings and they were slowly going down.

Nickel-sized snowflakes clung to his windshield. Flying blind at 70 mph, Bailey frantically pushed open his clamshell door and looked down to orient himself. He was flying 5 feet off the water-the occasional whitecap seemed to touch and spin his tires. He throttled forward and pulled back on the stick. The plane groaned for altitude.

The weather had him cornered. Worse yet, somewhere ahead in the snow and fog was a rocky cliff that jutted into the ocean. He didn't know if it was a hundred or a thousand yards away.
He couldn't delay any longer. Ten feet above the whitecaps, he began a gradual turn to head back to bear camp.

The shoreline disappeared and Bailey found himself in a grayout, a condition in which gray sea and low gray clouds create a seamless confused mass. Vertigo set in.

Crash at Sea

The world exploded into chaos. The plane cartwheeled and folded onto itself like a poorly flipped pancake. Salt water burst through the windshield, sending shards of glass into Bailey's face. The aluminum airframe around him crunched like a can underfoot.

Water poured into the cockpit of the upside-down plane. Bailey wiggled out the door and into the frigid water, coughing up salt water and spitting blood. Not seeing Gray, he took a breath and dove, twisting and kicking as he ran his hands down the fuselage to the cockpit door. He reached inside and felt an empty backseat. When he surfaced, the storm howled in his ears and wind-driven snow bit at his cheeks. Seconds later, Gray's head
appeared near the crest of a wave. He signaled he was okay.

[pagebreak]
Bailey looked around, blinking to clear the blood and burning salt water from his eyes. The Bering Sea rollers were as huge as cargo containers, and his low position in the water kept him from locating shore. The tail of the plane pointed skyward. The weight
of the engine put it in a slow nosedive to the bottom.

Swimming into the guts of a roller, Bailey rode the upsurge to its crest. Like a seal bellying up onto a rock, he scurried onto the tail and bear-hugged the plane with his arms and legs. The fuselage bucked in the rollers; hanging on to the plane was like trying to ride a greased pig in a rainstorm. He sunk his fingers into the canvas, creating a handhold, and pulled himself up to a higher vantage point.

Snow stung his eyes as he squinted and focused to find shore. Something. Anything. And there, separating the two gray halves of air and water, was
a black shoreline stretched as thin as a spiderweb. Bailey estimated they were 1,500 yards from land.
"We should stay with the plane," shouted Gray. "It's floating."

"Not for long, it won't be," Bailey countered.

Bailey looked Gray and pointed the direction to shore. Perhaps this was the last time they would see each other. The pair pushed off and started swimming. Behind them, a roller engulfed the plane and sucked it from sight.

Curling whitecaps struck repeatedly like fangs, injecting Bailey with venomous cold. He swam an eternity of strokes, but soon realized he was doing nothing more than useless splashing.

The cold made his thinking fuzzy and incoherent. He thought he was kicking hard and steady. Looking back, he saw that his legs were barely moving. He soon didn't think much about anything.

"I remember sinking beneath the surface and looking up to see snow swirling above me," he says. "I had nothing left to give.

"Suddenly, my feet touched bottom, which was a shock. I kicked up, and realized I had a chance."

The kickoff was barely enough for his head to clear the surface. He gulped a breath of air before the next breaker drove him back to the bottom. He kicked off again and found the depth was decreasing.

In the shallow flats, rollers turned into 5-foot coastal breakers that tossed Bailey about as he neared shore like a dog shaking a play toy.

The spray-capped waves flung him into the shallows. With his remaining strength, he stabbed his toes and fingers into the sand, fighting the pull of each wave's undertow. He tried to stand but couldn't use his legs, so he slithered like a snake to higher ground.

[pagebreak]
His body resembled the kelp that littered the shore: limp, wet and motionless. He was so hypothermic that his uncontrollable shaking ceased. He opened his eyes. The jagged cuts on his face oozed thick drops of blood into the black sand. His mind was blank.

Then he remembered Gray. Bailey forced his cramped neck to turn. Gray was in the breakers, half swimming, half floundering.

Bailey shouted, but his throat, parched from the salt, only managed a squeak. He tried again. "Stand up and walk," his voice cracked. Struggling, Gray made it to shore.

The next 20 minutes were the most difficult. The two men were critically hypothermic, and they had no survival gear, dry clothing or firewood. Bailey then remembered a book of water-resistant matches he always kept in his pocket. He had hope.

Gray yanked out handfuls of dry beach rye and stacked them in a small pile. The wet matches fizzled. Finally, one smoked and exploded in a ribbon of flame. It quickly ignited the rye, which burned as if doused with gasoline. Yet the burning grass created no embers or lingering warmth. Whirlwind devils quickly snatched up the burning stalks and propelled them down the beach like tracer rounds on
a battlefield.

Three matches remained. Bailey and Gray found a slight depression protected from the wind, started another fire and heaped on clump after clump of dry grass. Soft from seawater, the few driftwood branches they collected smoldered and popped in the fire. Bailey, crazed with cold, thrust his hands into the flames and rolled his shirtless torso through the fire, trying to burn warmth into his body.
For three hours they huddled shoulder to shoulder to form a windbreak. While one side warmed, the other froze in the wet snow and wind.

From the Water, Hope
The tide was receding. Bailey stared catatonically at the gouges in the black sand where he had dragged himself out of the surf.

The sea that almost took their lives was now bringing hope. As the tide ebbed, more of the plane revealed itself on the flat. Bailey knew what he had to do. He removed his pants and steeled himself for a walk to the plane. The receding water might cough up the .375 rifle he always tied with a bungee-cord to the right strut. The Alaska Peninsula has one of the densest populations of brown bears in the world. If a bear sensed their weakened condition, they'd be helpless in an attack.

The abrasive action of sand and wave had stripped all the covering from the plane. Only a few tubes remained from the tail. The wings and struts were ripped off, and with them the rifle. There was nothing left except the engine, a few cables, a front seat and the landing gear.

Bailey reached under the seat and smiled as his hands closed on the .44 magnum he always kept there. He staggered back to shore, quivering with hypothermia.

Bouts of shivering overpowered him each time he stopped to rest. The grass fire wasn't providing enough heat. They had to keep moving to stay alive.

[pagebreak]

A Desperate Hike

They tried to walk south, but the 30 mph winds overpowered their weakened frames. They turned around,
allowing the wind to help lift their legs and push them up the beach. Even then, they frequently collapsed from cramps and fatigue. Bear tracks were everywhere. Bailey unholstered his revolver as they approached a bloated walrus carcass that had washed ashore.

They walked 34 miles in two days before spotting an automated Coast Guard light located 170 feet above the beach at Cape Seniavin. Bailey crawled up the hill, hoping to find shelter and supplies in the small enclosure. He pried open the wooden door, only to find the interior filled with snow.

He continued to walk the ridgeline above the beach, looking for a house or settlement. Gray remained near the surf so that any passing aircraft could easily spot him.

Suddenly, Bailey spotted a Super Cub flying just above the beach. He waved frantically, and his eyes met those of a passenger in the backseat.

Bailey was overjoyed when he saw the plane bank for a turn, level out and land. Both hunters grabbed the struts in the gusty wind to keep the plane from flipping until it taxied to a stop.

"Trooper Hensley with Fish and Wildlife Protection was piloting the aircraft," Bailey recalls. "He gave us a can of peaches and one sleeping bag, said he'd return with another plane from Port Heiden, and left.
Three hours went by. Jesse and I traded use of the sleeping bag, but it couldn't keep us warm."

Hensley finally returned. They waited for the other plane to show in a wind that was gradually gaining strength. The plane never arrived.

"Hensley said it was impossible to fly three people off that beach in a
Super Cub," Bailey recalls. "I told him to move over and I'd show him how. To his credit, he trusted me. I got that plane airborne, and once I did, boy, it felt good to be flying again."

Bailey says he wouldn't be here today if it weren't for the military-issue matches in his pocket, and for listening to his gut feeling in the snowstorm.

"If I hadn't turned around in that snowstorm, I would have pancaked into the middle of that rock face," he says. "Sometimes it pays to listen to your instincts.on of sand and wave had stripped all the covering from the plane. Only a few tubes remained from the tail. The wings and struts were ripped off, and with them the rifle. There was nothing left except the engine, a few cables, a front seat and the landing gear.

Bailey reached under the seat and smiled as his hands closed on the .44 magnum he always kept there. He staggered back to shore, quivering with hypothermia.

Bouts of shivering overpowered him each time he stopped to rest. The grass fire wasn't providing enough heat. They had to keep moving to stay alive.

[pagebreak]

A Desperate Hike

Mayday!

outdoorlife-editor — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 12:26:31 -0400

Bush pilots are to Alaska what Pony Express riders were to the Wild West. For nearly 100 years they have tamed America's last frontier by combining the raw survival skills and courage of explorers with the savvy and gut instincts of saloon poker players. Each
decision a bush pilot makes is a calculated risk in a wilderness filled with hazards. A misread river, engine failure or a sudden storm might result not only in the loss of an aircraft, but also in the loss of life.

Bush-pilot lore celebrates the humor, quick
thinking, grace under pressure and flying skills that sum up what it means to be an Alaska bush pilot. Here are a few of the pilots and their stories.

Archie Ferguson

Rescued by a swearing parrot

The period from the 1920s to the 1940s was the Golden Age of Alaska bush pilots. Aviators like Noel Wien and Carl Ben Eielson made frequent headlines with their pioneering firsts. Their notoriety made the era's most colorful bush pilot, Archie Ferguson, feel a bit cheated. If you didn't know of his own exploits, he made sure to remedy that in a hurry.

The Saturday Evening Post once described Archie as "the craziest pilot in Alaska." Many of his colleagues thought the label too kind, and for good reason.

For Archie, sin and service were the same, as long as the job got done. He acknowledged that he never attended flight school because he was always too busy flying. He lived his life as he typically landed his airplane-in a borderline-controlled crash. Archie crashed better than anyone alive-about 24 planes in his flying career, 12 of those in one year. Like a charmed cat, he walked away from every one.

Perhaps his most memorable crash-landing is the one known as "The Rescue of the Swearing Parrot." The dean of Alaska bush pilots, Bud Helmericks, was a friend of Archie's and likes to tell the story. [pagebreak]

Archie would never admit it, but there were two heroes to the story-Archie of course, and a parrot he had purchased from a group of sailors, who had reportedly taught the bird every cuss word known to man. The bird and Archie flew together often, and the two conversed in the same
colorful language.

On one trip from Fairbanks to Kotzebue, Archie and the bird were flying in pilot Maurice King's plane. King had his hands full with some of the roughest turbulence either pilot had ever encountered. The plane dropped and rolled
violently. The parrot went berserk, screaming and screeching. Archie tried to control it, to help King focus on the flying, but to no avail. They eventually made it, but the parrot hated Archie thereafter, always biting and cursing him. A short time later, Archie's dog somehow caught and ate the bird.

What probably irritated Archie
beyond measure was that even after it was long dead, the ill-tempered, foul-beaked parrot actually saved his life.

Years later, Archie was flying freight and two passengers from Fairbanks to Kotzebue, along the same route he had flown with King. It was midwinter, and he was at the controls of a plane that was icing up heavily and suddenly stopped flying. The plane dropped below tree line, bounced over the frozen tundra, hit a tree and ripped off a wing. The impact tore the engine from its mounts and flung it into a snowbank. Engine oil splattered across the cockpit and onto Archie, who was unconscious with a broken arm.

[pagebreak]
His two passengers were unharmed. They thought Archie was dead until he woke and surveyed the situation. It was 20 below zero, and they were more than 200 miles from Fairbanks with one sleeping bag and no food.

Archie's first concern was for his
passengers. He placed his arm in a sling and started to chop trees to build a snow shelter. He also attempted to
repair the radio. After two days, with no rescue in sight, his passengers
were depressed and hungry. Archie
announced tt he was going hunting. He soon returned, saying he had found a bear den and needed their help to kill the hibernating bears.

Archie chopped off a thick branch to use as a club to bludgeon the bears and gave an ax to the others to finish them off. He cleared away brush from the bear den and crawled inside, his companions timidly following. Lacking enough room to swing his club, he
suddenly began to punch the bears.

"There's two of them," he yelled. "Oh, bejeezuz, here they come!"

The passengers lost their composure and half ran, half stumbled back to the safety of the plane. Archie hobbled back and chided them to return to
the den so they could have some bear
stew that night. They refused, never knowing for certain whether there were actually any bears in the den.

Archie finally rewired the circuits of the broken radio. He slowly warmed the frozen battery to coax just enough power to transmit a simple yet revealing sentence: "Tell King I'm down where we had trouble with the parrot."

The battery gave out, but not until after his dispatcher received the cryptic message and passed it along to King. King, who had been searching for Archie since the plane ditched, never forgot the area, the parrot or the turbulence, and immediately flew to the wreckage to rescue his friend.

Another one of Ferguson's crashes that is worth recounting is the time he managed to shoot down his own plane. It was during his first aerial wolf hunt. Because of his bad aim he blasted the tip off his plane's wooden propeller and crashed. He chopped off a similar length of propeller from the other side and managed to get the plane airborne again. [pagebreak]

Larry Suiter

a life-and-death struggle for control of his plane

Larry Suiter has flown in the world's worst weather on the Alaska Peninsula and Kodiak Island. Yet his most terrifying moment as a pilot didn't have anything to do with the weather, the terrain or a mechanical failure. It was because of a passenger.

He had just landed on Nonvianuk Lake and loaded two anglers and a guide into his Cessna 206. The angler who was riding copilot weighed about 350 pounds, while the two men in back were an easy 220 each. The
temperature was in the upper 80s, the lake was flat calm and the plane was loaded with fuel.

"It's going to take me a while to get airborne," Larry told his party. "We have plenty of lake. I'll get us on step, lift up one float and pop the other, and we should be airborne."
The 206 has a yoke on the passenger side. Larry warned Carl, the angler seated there, that it would be coming back toward him on takeoff.

All was going as planned. When Larry pulled back on the stick, the
copilot yoke dug slightly into Carl's midsection. Not wanting it to come back any farther, Carl grabbed it and held it in place. Larry couldn't level the aircraft and was losing control.

"Let go of the yoke!" he yelled. "Dammit, let go!"

Carl didn't respond. Larry threw a hard punch into Carl's left shoulder, and he finally released his grip.

The plane, now in a slanted, nose-up attitude, was in trouble. The stall buzzer screeched.

"I was in crash mode," Larry recalled. "All I could do was drop the nose and feather it a bit."

The plane slammed flat on its floats, and water geysered up past the wings.

"Why did you grab the yoke?"

Larry asked.

"Why did you hit me?" asked Carl, rubbing his shoulder.

Larry shut down and checked the aircraft to make sure no bolts were sheared from the impact.

Neither Larry nor Carl said a word to each other until Larry taxied to the end of the lake and they were once again ready for takeoff.

Before throttling up Larry turned to Carl and said with all seriousness, "You so much as move your hands, and I'll punch your lights out."

"I'll do better than that," Carl said. He buried his hands under his seat belt, locking them in place.
[pagebreak]
Gayle Ranney

when Santa flew into a Christmas typhoon

Gayle Ranney's U.S. Postal mail contract for 2000 required her to deliver Christmas boxes and cards to the remote villages along the Prince William Sound coastline. For adults and kids alike, the 60-year-old veteran bush
pilot was Santa Claus. Because of the extremely short Alaska days, she had less than five hours to make all her stops and return to Cordova.

Shortly after the 10 a.m. sunrise, her Cessna 185 was fully loaded and she was heading across the open water of eastern Prince William Sound. The small islands looked beautiful even in the cold gray fog, but Gayle knew that looks can be deceiving. Foul Pass, Lone Passage, Dangerous Passage and Mummy Bay were the landmarks
below her. They had earned their names thanks to a dangerous mix of tide, wind and weather.

Gayle saw the gray line of a snow squall headed her way. Wet snow sticks to aircraft wings and makes
flying impossible. She radioed dispatch that she was going to wait out the squall, then landed and taxied into a semi-protected cove on Green Island. She knew most snow squalls blow through in a couple of hours.

The clouds thickened and visibility worsened. By twilight, the squall had turned into a full-fledged storm. She would have to spend the long winter night in the plane.

Maintaining an airplane for a night on Green Island would be a grueling task for a pilot half Gayle's age. Every couple of hours in the dark, she pulled and pushed the fully loaded plane any way she could to reposition it in the constantly changing tide and wind. She had numerous hazards to contend with. Mud suction could keep the plane from floating on an incoming tide, sinking it. Wave action could lift and drop the plane onto shoreline rocks, puncturing the floats and sinking the aircraft. Gusts could drift her plane into the trees and crush a wing.

The aircraft's half-submerged floats were showing the weight of accumulated snow. In the dark, during the howling storm, Gayle climbed up and out onto the slippery aluminum wings. The wet, driving snow soaked her skin. One misstep and she could slide
headfirst into the ocean, be knocked unconscious and drown. Throughout the long winter night, despite the
bone-numbing cold, she methodically cleaned off the wings and fuselage with one sweep of her arm at a time.

The 50-mph winds created a chill factor that hovered around 5 degrees. She had no heat in the plane, no food, no hot drinks and no dry change of clothes. The next morning she was
unable to establish radio contact with any other aircraft or dispatch. But the weather had improved and the gusts had died down a bit, so she decided to chance a return to Cordova. BR>
"I'll do better than that," Carl said. He buried his hands under his seat belt, locking them in place.
[pagebreak]
Gayle Ranney

How to Survive at 30 Below

outdoorlife-editor — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 12:26:31 -0400

Of the many trophies I've received in my life, I am most proud of the ugly, L-shaped scar I carry on my back. One second Larry Suiter and I were afloat off the Kodiak Island shoreline, celebrating a successful November deer hunt over dinner. Without warning, an unexpected gale flipped our 38-foot charter boat, slamming us into the galley wall. The howling wind was ground into background noise by the sound of the overturning boat being crunched like a metal can in a vice.

Bear Attacks!

outdoorlife-editor — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 12:26:30 -0400

What is the Bear Matrix? It's a world of horrific maulings, canine teeth gnawing on scalps, claws ripping into flesh and people being eaten. No, this isn't a nightmare-it's a computer database
compiling info on more than 500 bear attacks that
have occurred in Alaska since the early 1900s.

The gatekeeper of this data is U.S. Geological Survey research biologist Tom Smith. Smith is one of the few people who can analyze the patterns contained within the database, and his research shows that bear attacks are anything but random events. Brush aside the blood and gore of these encounters and you can probe the age-old mystery that has chilled the marrow of many outdoorsmen: Why do bears attack?

ATTACK TRIGGERS

Three joggers decided to drive a short distance outside Anchorage and conduct a practice run down the McHugh Creek Trail in the Chugach Mountains. After climbing up a mountain, the joggers spread out and slogged down the trail, focused on making each step count. In their path was a dense alder patch with a brown bear on a moose kill. The
surprised bear attacked and instantly killed the first jogger. The second ran into the fray and was also mortally wounded. The third, hearing the commotion and realizing it was a bear attack, retreated up the trail, climbed a small tree and stayed there until some hikers approached.

"Surprise is the biggest factor in triggering a bear attack," says Smith. "When first startled, a brown bear is just trying to defend itself."

Analyzing the story, Smith said the joggers made four major mistakes. "They were running in bear country. They were not close together. They carried no deterrents and made no noise. All the elements came together at the right time to create an attack. If they had been walking together, making noise and carrying pepper spray, the mauling would likely
never have happened."

Hunters Most Susceptible

The database shows that of the different types of outdoorsmen who use the Alaska wilderness, hunters are the most susceptible to bear attack.

"Hunters typically aren't making any noise, and they sleuth around while wearing camo," Smith says.
"Maybe they're blowing a predator call-the database confirms bears sometimes approach people who use predator calls." Many encounters take place at a downed animal, gut pile or bear-killed or scavenged carcass. Yet according to Smith, carcass defense is often misunderstood.

"Take your dog's food while it is eating, and chances are he'll bite you. You can do anything to the animal at any other time with no similarly
aggressive response. Eliminate walking up on a bear and surprising it over a carcass, and you reduce the possibility of an attack by fifty percent."

Browns Most Dangerous

Alaska has a population of about 7,500 polar bears, 35,000 brown bears and 110,000 black bears-yet brown bears account for more than 86 percent of all bear conflicts in the state. The average brown bear encounter is 13 times more dangerous than the
average polar bear encounter and 22 times more dangerous than the average black bear encounter. Smith says this disparity is due to many factors. Black bears are relatively timid compared to browns and grizzlies, and polar bear habitat is restricted to remote regions with few people around. Humans
interact more with brown bears on common-use land (such as berry patches, fishing streams and hunting areas) than with other species.

Wrong Place, Wrong Time

The matrix shows that bear attacks are seasonal in nature. Far more attacks occur in fall, during hunting season, than in spring. Summer berry season is another peak time for human-bear
encounters. The time of day can also play a role in whether an attack happens. You stand a far greater chance of having an encounter by taking a nighttime walk adjacent to a salmon stream than you will by making noise alg that same stream during the daytime.

AVOIDING ATTACKS

Joe Want had journeyed far from camp and was heading back before nightfall. He could barely see the branches sticking out along the bear trail he was following. The trail was quiet as he hurried along, using what was left of the twilight, when he
surprised a brown bear resting nearby. Startled by the quickly approaching form in the low light of dusk, the bear charged. Joe dropped down into a
tussock, face first. The bear tore up his pack frame, which had slid over the back of his neck, and swatted at his arms and shoulders. Joe remained still as the bear vented its surprise and left. Injured, Joe made his way back to camp, thankful to be alive.

Trekking in Bear Country

Had Want been making noise or wearing the headlamp that was stashed away in his backpack, or had he slowed his pace a bit, chances are this incident could have been avoided.

Even during the day, don't trek through bear country mindlessly while zoning out under your CD player's headphones. Stay alert and walk ridges and trails that afford good views of the surrounding environment. Whenever possible, walk alpine ridges rather than brushy gullies and riverbanks. Use extra caution when walking through feeding areas, such as salmon streams and berry patches.

Setting Up Camp

How you set up your camp can make the difference between a sound night's sleep and having your dreams interrupted by a bold bear.

"At least three-fourths or more of the bears that enter camps do so from 2 a.m. to 5 a.m., the time when people are most quiet and sound asleep," he says. "I sleep well at night because I set up an electric fence around my camp."

Electricity is an underrated bear
deterrent, according to Smith. But you don't have to set up a high-powered (and expensive) fence charger designed for cattle. Instead, visit a local home improvement store and buy a $39 fence charger that runs on two "D" batteries.

Strength in Numbers

Bears don't like seeing more than one person. Smith says you can deter
attacks by hunting or hiking close
together. Moving over regular terrain you can walk 10 to 20 feet apart, but when you get into the thickets, it's time to group up. That alone will work. Smith has no record of a bear that has charged and attacked two or more people standing their ground. "As soon as you split up, you stack the odds against you," he said.

FIGHTING BACK

The biologists darted the grizzly from the helicopter, then landed. Approaching the bear to take blood samples, they sensed something wasn't right. The bear moved, and moved again. Suddenly, from just 19 feet away, the bear charged the two researchers.

One biologist pulled a .44 and fired four shots at the bear, which quickly beelined for the brush. The pair ran for the safety of the helicopter cab. From the air, they noticed the bear still wandering around, so they darted it again. Upon examining the bear, they found that even at close range not a single bullet had hit the bear.

Do Sprays and Guns Help?

When it comes to arguing about the
effectiveness of bear sprays vs. firearms as deterrents in bear attacks, both sides have valid points to make. The truth is that people don't shoot particularly well under stressful situations like a bear attack, as illustrated by the above example. Sprays can also fail spectacularly as deterrents, especially when the canister is stashed in a backpack (as
often happens) or if the wind is blowing the wrong way.
But Smith says one thing is certain. Having a deterrent handy is much
better than facing a menacing bear with nothing but your fists. For one, the spray or firearm gives you something to do other than run, which is the wrong response to an encounter.

"Just as backing away shows fear, standing confidently means something to a bear," Smith says. "It's very difficult to stand down a menacingly
curious bear, but no matter what, it is imperative that people not back away."

When All Else Fails

If you have sprayed or shot at a brown bear and it attacks, do not lie down. Instead, Smith says, turn your back to the bear and let it knock you down. Once you are knocked down by a brown bear, assume a defensive position by lying face down with your hands interlaced over your neck to protect it. Spread your legs to help keep you face down during the attack. Be still. Remember, the vast majority of brown bear attacks are defensive-the bear will nip, bite and swat for a bit and then move on. If the attack is prolonged-going on for minutes, perhaps-it is time to fight back.

Black bears are a different matter. "The majority of black bear attacks appear predatory," Smith says. "You should always fight back."

LESSONS LEARNED

Smith says that his study shows that a large percentage of bear-human conflicts are avoidable if a few simple rules are followed.

Hike, hunt and fish in groups of two or more, keeping close in areas with limited visibility.

Make noise when appropriate, such as when entering a thicket near a salmon stream.

Always have a deterrent or two handy for dealing with a bear (e.g., pepper spray, flares and firearms). The database shows that in most conflicts bears were only defending themselves when surprised, and that their goal was to neutralize the threat and move on. Bears aren't "out to get" anyone.
Ultimately, the Bear Matrix shows that people and bears pretty much want the same thing: to be left alone to do their own thing, and not be surprised in the wild. ently means something to a bear," Smith says. "It's very difficult to stand down a menacingly
curious bear, but no matter what, it is imperative that people not back away."

When All Else Fails

LESSONS LEARNED

Smith says that his study shows that a large percentage of bear-human conflicts are avoidable if a few simple rules are followed.

Hike, hunt and fish in groups of two or more, keeping close in areas with limited visibility.

Make noise when appropriate, such as when entering a thicket near a salmon stream.

Alaska on the Cheap...Continued

outdoorlife-editor — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 12:26:29 -0400

What to Take

Because you'll be on your own out in the Alaska wilderness, you should pack gear for all emergencies.

Pack quality raingear and a range of lightweight and cool-weather synthetic clothing. Temperatures can dip into the 40s, but most areas will be in the 60s to 80s during the summer months. Annual rainfall in downtown Juneau averages 90 inches, and almost 154 inches in Ketchikan.

Cabins typically have basic tools, a few wooden bunks and a stove. A cookstove that burns unleaded gasoline is best. Fuel canisters are prohibited on airlines, but you can find unleaded fuel almost anywhere in Alaska. Some cabins
require you to use fuel oil or to cut your own firewood.

Generally speaking, bring your own sleeping bag, cooking utensils and fishing gear. You need to be self-sufficient. Also, many cabin veterans rent a small outboard kicker from the air- or boat-charter operator.
In the Tongass, standard salmon fishing gear works best. I carry two rods, so that if one breaks I can continue fishing with the spare. Go with medium-action casting or spinning rods for kings and silvers, and lighter rods for reds, pinks and chums. A 9-weight fly rod will handle all Alaska sport fish except the largest king salmon. Take plenty of extra line, from 8- to 20-pound-test, for spin-fishing. And don't forget the ultralight tackle for rainbows, grayling, cutthroats and char.

Hip boots are a must-have item. For saltwater surf-casting and river wading, chest waders with felt soles work best.

When pursuing Alaska big game, expect to use the same type of hunting equipment you would on a backpack hunt for elk or mule deer in the Lower 48. You might also consider taking a spotting scope, freeze-dried food for overnight use and a radio or personal locator beacon (PLB) in case of an emergency.

Cost Cutters

Early Arrival Try to arrive in Alaska early in the morning so that you can depart for your fishing or hunting location by midday. Evening arrivals generally require an overnight stay at a hotel-summer rates are typically around $125 per night.

By Sea or Air? Renting a charter boat in coastal areas can be more or less costly than chartering a floatplane. Be sure to compare prices. Boats allow pickup when poor visibility prevents air travel.
Off-Season Discounts Many operators offer discounts to anglers in mid- to late May and in late September, because few people travel to Alaska at these times. At either part of the season, expect the possibility of rain, snow and cooler temperatures.

Ship Your Gear Consider shipping nonperishable food to the cabin owner via standard freight before your arrival. After your stay, you can reuse the boxes to mail hunting or fishing gear back to your home. Pack your game meat, fish or hides in coolers or meat boxes and check them as luggage so that they arrive home when you do. This saves big bucks on excess baggage or air-freight costs.

Avoid Fee Hikes Many operators charge higher fees for nonresidents who don't know how to handle jet boats and other expensive equipment. Convince the outfitter you're skilled, and ask for the in-state price.
Don't Pay for Lost Time Some operators will charge you for staying at a cabin if inclement weather prevents you from departing. Argue strongly for a greatly reduced rate or no charge for the weathered-in portion.

Fly for Free

Fly on Weekdays Air and boat charters are
often booked solid during weekend switch-over days. You'll receive better service if you arrive and depart on weekdays.

Frequent-flyer miles are easier to
accumulate than ever before. Just
buy from or sign up with the right company and you'll get a mileage boost that may put you in the sky for free. The secret is to find the right partner(s) far enough in advance to get your account credited.
Since the partners usually comnsate the carrier, the best place to start your search is on the airlines' Web pages. On www.americanairlines.com look under "Partners and Mileage
Program." On www.southwest.com check "Rapid Rewards" and on www.nwa.com (Northwest Airlines) click on "WorldPerks."

Northwest lists over 60 businesses (including Cabela's) that award frequent-flyer miles. Some are available only through the Internet, such as www.rei.com and www.target.com.

Credit cards and financial services are the fastest way to grab new points. At www.etrade.com you can get up to 75,000 miles for making a deposit into a new account. There's a link to a Visa card that gives 3,000 points (United has a Visa link that awards up to 15,000) just for signing up. When using one of these cards, most household expenses can earn you miles, including the hunting trip itself if you book it far enough in advance.

If you can't buy
stuff fast enough to earn a free seat, you can still purchase some extra miles. Many airlines sell miles through their Web pages. Several Web brokers also buy and sell miles, including www.frequentflyer points.com, www.miles4sale.com and www.air-awards.com. Though it's legal for these brokers to sell miles everywhere but in Utah, it may violate an airline's frequent-flyer program, so before buying miles from a broker you should verify that the carrier will accept them.

checking firearms: Airlines allow firearms to be checked in as baggage, but you have to declare them. The gun must be unloaded and sealed in a hard-sided case. These regulations can change and their violation can lead to federal prosecution, so it's a good idea to call your airline a few days before you depart.

Flying With Meat: Most
domestic airlines will transport meat as checked luggage. Usually travelers can check two pieces of baggage that don't exceed 62 inches in maximum dimension (length plus width plus height) and 50 pounds in weight.

Luggage over 50 pounds will cost an additional $25 to $50 each and will have to be shipped as air cargo if it's over 100 pounds. Extra bags might also result in additional charges. The traveler is responsible for the proper packaging of meat. Airlines require that meat be carried in leakproof containers, such as coolers or waxed boxes. Airlines might not take a package that contains dry ice. Carry tape with you in case you have to reseal a package.
-Jim Lee

A 1,500-Mile Drive to Alaska's Paradise

At Whitehorse the temperature dropped to
63 degrees below zero. It was 55 below at Dawson Creek, and a chilling 69 below at the Donjek River on the Alaska Highway. In my
barracks niche, the day we ran out of stove oil, my shaving lotion congealed. The cold clawed at you with steel-like talons.

These words were written by a construction worker in the winter of 1942, when the Alaska Highway was built. Sliced out of the bush in only eight months, the 1,422-mile-long highway was constructed just after the attack on Pearl Harbor. A journalist aptly said, "We will either build a highway up to Alaska or the Japanese will build it down for us."

Contrary to popular belief, the entire road is paved. Be aware, however, that severe weather requires extensive construction to keep the highway maintained. When you drive this thoroughfare, keep delays in mind.

To avoid crowds, make the drive before or
after the peak of the tourist season, which is July and August. The official start of the highway is Dawson Creek, British Columbia, whose airport is appropriately named "Milepost 0 Airport." From there, the major towns on the highway
include Fort St. John, Fort Nelson, Watson Lake, Whitehorse and, finally, Fairbanks.

The immensely popular book The Milepost is a must for travelers who want a detailed description of the attractions and services along the road. If you want a varied adventure, drive the highway up and return to the Lower 48 via a large ferry that accommodates recreational vehicles. -Jim Zumbo rn to the Lower 48 via a large ferry that accommodates recreational vehicles. -Jim Zumbo

Alaska on the Cheap

outdoorlife-editor — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 12:26:29 -0400

Over the past 28 years, my family and I have enjoyed a millionaire's hunting and fishing lifestyle without the fat bank account. We've sipped fine wine from the comfort of a bubbling hot tub after a day of hooking and releasing more than 50 salmon. We've explored remote wilderness islands, hunted mountain goats, black bears and blacktail deer, and had entire lakes and rivers to ourselves, catching fish until we were too tired to make another cast.

Curious? I'll let you in on the deal. You can enjoy these Alaska adven-tures for as little as $25 a day, too.

Let me set the scene. Most families can't afford the $5,000 a week per person charged by many full-service lodges. People who go to these high-end establishments pay for five-course dinners, little mints left on their pillows each night, pilots to fly them into wilderness areas and guides to unhook caught fish. But if you can cook your own meals, land your own fish and choose your own bottle of champagne, you can have fishing and hunting every bit as good as, if not better than, what those high-priced lodges offer.

There are three types of wilderness cabins from which to choose: government cabins, outfitted cabins and high-end chalets. Allow me to introduce each of them to you.

Government Cabins

Leave the tents at home. Man was meant to walk upright into overnight accommodations, not crawl into them like a rodent. Alaska's 200 U.S. Forest Service cabins allow upright entrances. At the current rate of $25 to $45 per day, outdoor enthusiasts can spend days nestled on isolated saltwater bays or in remote mountains near streams filled with salmon and cutthroat and rainbow trout, and surrounded by forests loaded with black bears, deer, wolves and moose.

Don't expect run-down shacks crawling with mice. These are modern, well-maintained cabins with furnishings that might include an oil- or wood-burning stove, a table, benches, a boat, oars, an outhouse and firewood. Several cabins even have ramps and boardwalks for easy access for the handicapped.

Alaska's 17-million-acre Tongass National Forest offers more than 120,000 acres of fishable lakes and 23,000 miles of streams. The 5.9-
million-acre Chugach National Forest contains about 70,000 acres of lakes and 8,000 miles of streams.

According to a survey conducted by the U.S. Forest Service, sightseeing and fishing are the main reasons nonresidents visit southeastern Alaska. In that survey, 87 percent expressed medium to high satisfaction with the U.S. Forest Service cabins.

Most of the cabins are accessible only by floatplane or boat. Air charter costs vary with distance, but fares can be split among passengers. For example, the 15-minute bush-plane flight from Ketchikan to Kegan Creek cabin, located on Prince of Wales Island, will cost three anglers about $130 each. At $35 per night, renting the cabin for seven days costs $245, or about $82 apiece. Toss in some food, supplies and licenses and that comes to around $300 per person for the week.

Permits for these cabins are issued on a first-come, first-served basis. Permits can be obtained by phone or over the Internet. Reservations are accepted up to 180 days in advance.

At Kegan Creek cabin, anglers can catch four of the five species of Pacific salmon from the stream. Fishing is
often as steady as a fish per cast, especially where the creek enters salt water. There are also rainbow and cutthroat trout and Dolly Vardens in the upper stream and lake, along with steelhead beginning in April. The silver salmon fishing yields fish in the 8- to 12-pound category. You'll be enjoying the same fishing that others at lodges on the northern part of the island are paying over $4,000 a week to enjoy. Your price? Once you arrive, $35 per day.

If you crave isolation, other cabins in the Chugach National Forest have equally good fishing for several specs of salmon and receive little, if any, pressure. At many cabins, you won't see another plane, angler or person during your entire stay. And many of these same cabins are excellent base camps for hunting black bears, Sitka blacktail deer, moose and wolves.

After a hard day of fishing, you can take a plunge in a glacial pool, absorb the sunlight in a huge, boulder-filled amphitheater or listen to the harmonic melody of a snowmelt stream that tastes as great as it sounds.

On a visit to the Pybus Bay cabin on Admiralty Island, a friend and I were astonished by the number of silver, pink and chum salmon in the creek near our cabin. The salmon would enter the stream on the incoming tide, not in twos or threes, but in waves of fifty. We spent three days fishing the stream and didn't see another angler. In the evenings, we would explore the intertidal areas to photograph deer, eagles and brown bears. Under the thick canopy of the spruce, wild berries were everywhere. The berries made tasty additions to salads, pancakes and oatmeal. In the tidal pools, we found an abundance of marine life that included starfish, barnacles, jellyfish and crabs. We photographed herons, otters, eagles and blacktail deer. We found paradise and kept wishing we could stay for an entire month.

Another great place for photography is Anan Creek cabin. It has a large protected shelter nearby that was built for photographing and viewing brown and black bears while they fish for salmon. Ronald Reagan decided the site was fit for a president when he stayed in Anan Creek soon after he left office.

You'll find there are so many government cabins currently available, each of them with different hunting and fishing opportunities, that it's best to refrain from calling local offices and asking generic questions.

Instead, research the cabins and trips beforehand and try to find the one that is right for you. The National Recreation Reservation Service's Web site has maps and descriptions of all Forest Service cabins.

Contact: National Recreation Reservation Service (877-444-6777; www.reserveusa. com). The book Fishing and Hunting Alaska on Dollars a Day, by Christopher Batin, reviews several hundred cabins in the state ($25.95; Alaska Angler Publications, Dept. OL, 221 Bentley Drive, Fairbanks, AK 99708; 908-455-8000; www.alaska hunter.com).

Outfitted Cabins

Searching for a bit more luxury and perhaps a guide? Consider an outfitted cabin. These will typically cost between $70 and $200 per night per person. A favorite of mine is Deneka Cabin, located in the Talkeetna Mountains and operated by Alaska Experience. I first explored the area for rainbow trout nearly 20 years ago. I revisited the cabin again in 2002. The cabin has remained unchanged, and the fishing is still exceptional. Knee-deep streams make for easy flyfishing. I've averaged between 30 and 40 rainbows per day, typically 16 to 28 inches long. Other streams within walking distance offer salmon, char and grayling. In fall and winter, the ptarmigan and grouse hunting in the area is excellent.

Deneka Cabin is $200 a day per
person, but all camp equipment is
furnished, as is your flight in from
Anchorage. You arrive with your gear and food. I recommend the guide
option for a few days to learn the local hot spots. Expect no competition-the wilderness area surrounding the cabin is privately owned. In an emergency, radios and satellite phones keep you in touch with the outside. If you feel a tad mischievous, call up your office buddies and describe a huge rainbow trout you're about to release.

This past summer a retired businessman from Switzerland booked a four-week stay at a cabin across the lake from me. Each day, he fished for lake trout and salmon and investigated old trapper cabins in the area. One day, he hurried over to tell me about a brown bear he had chased off his porch with a stick of firewood. The area boasts one of the highest concentrations of brown bears in south-central Alaska. In just one evening, I observed and photographed nine brown bears as they fed on king salmon.

Kodiak Island is the preferred locale for saltwater enthusiasts searching for cabin accommodations. Spirit of Alaska cabins run from $70 to $200 a day per person; the cost includes a bush-plane flight in and out and a fishing guide. The fishing opportunities here are outstanding. Mountains rise up from the coastline as you troll for salmon or jig for rockfish and 200-pound halibut. And from August through December, hunting is excellent for Sitka blacktails-the bag limit is three per hunter. Waterfowl hunting for mallards and sea ducks, including a variety of eiders, is also available.

Contact: Alaska Experience Cabins (907-696-2163; www.alaskaexperi ence.com); Spirit of Alaska Wilderness Adventures (888-552-8674; www. spiritofalaska.com).

Lottery Winners Only

A full-treatment cabin, such as Wolverine Lake Chalet north of Anchorage, is intricately furnished with group luxury in mind. It's common for a half-dozen anglers to stop salmon fishing early in the afternoon so they can kick back in an oversize hot tub and watch Wolverine Lake's rainbow trout rise. These facilities have full TV and stereo systems, complete libraries for trip planning and an RV for extended fishing and exploration. Owners Sid and Kathy Cook also offer four-wheelers, so do-it-yourself hunters can pursue black bears, moose or wolves in the Chugach Mountains. The trail begins to the left of your cabin. Expect to pay fees starting at $500 per person per day.

Steve Ranney of Fishing and Flying offers cabin and guide adventures in the scenic Prince William Sound region. One of my favorites is Summit Lake, where we hooked 56 rainbows on dry flies in 100 casts. I didn't see
another angler during the entire trip. If you're an adventurer, ask about camping in the Cape St. Elias lighthouse. Expect to pay about $300 a day for these guided-cabin packages.

Contact: Sid and Kathy Cook, Wolverine Lake Chalet (888-745-8872; www. alaskavacationpackages.com); Fishing and Flying (907-424-7249; www.orca adventurelodge.com).

[XLINK 434131 "Story Continued...Click Here"]with a stick of firewood. The area boasts one of the highest concentrations of brown bears in south-central Alaska. In just one evening, I observed and photographed nine brown bears as they fed on king salmon.

Kodiak Island is the preferred locale for saltwater enthusiasts searching for cabin accommodations. Spirit of Alaska cabins run from $70 to $200 a day per person; the cost includes a bush-plane flight in and out and a fishing guide. The fishing opportunities here are outstanding. Mountains rise up from the coastline as you troll for salmon or jig for rockfish and 200-pound halibut. And from August through December, hunting is excellent for Sitka blacktails-the bag limit is three per hunter. Waterfowl hunting for mallards and sea ducks, including a variety of eiders, is also available.

Contact: Alaska Experience Cabins (907-696-2163; www.alaskaexperi ence.com); Spirit of Alaska Wilderness Adventures (888-552-8674; www. spiritofalaska.com).

Lottery Winners Only

Wolf Men

outdoorlife-editor — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 12:26:29 -0400

If looks could kill, the wolf was ripping me apart, limb by limb. At 40 yards, its hungry yellow eyes fed ravenously on me; the sharp bite of those black pupils pierced to my core.

Never had I been so intensely scrutinized. Those two eyes blazed with an intelligence that viewed me as both predator and prey. Like the wolf, my concentration was complete,
focused on his every move. I was facing the most challenging prey of all: another predator.
It boiled down to which of us would blink first.

The wolf's wedge-shaped head dropped slightly to keep me in sight between spruce branches. Easing the rifle to my shoulder, I kept my gaze on him and was only semi-aware of the world around me. Our boat bobbed slightly in the slow current of western Alaska's Innoko River. Through my
peripheral vision, I could see my moose hunting partners looking downriver and to the other side, oblivious to the trophy on the left bank. There could be no sudden move or speaking to gain their attention.
The wolf was as solid as the massive spruce trees that surrounded it. It stood three-feet high at the shoulder. Its muzzle pointed toward me like a lance. A wolf's jaws can snap a
caribou leg like a toothpick. How many times had that snout and those two-inch canines clamped down on the nose of a 1,200-pound bull moose while waiting for the rest of the pack to move in for the kill?
I shouldered the rifle and found the animal in my scope.

"Wait! Don't shoot!" the other hunter in the boat whispered as he saw what was happening. I eased off the trigger squeeze. He swung around and scrambled for his rifle, breaking my gaze. I blinked. The wolf had vanished. I didn't see it turn and run. Not a leaf or twig rustled to indicate its presence. I searched the spruce thickets for a sign of those blazing yellow eyes. Nothing.

The other hunter was a greenhorn who wanted a wolf but didn't want to pay the price of constant vigilance. We both returned home, empty-handed. I cherish the moment, however, because to this day that experience has been my closest encounter with an Alaskan wolf. It also marked the beginning of my 28-year apprenticeship as an Alaska wolf hunter.

Wolf hunters are tough, both physically and mentally, and for good reason. The wolf is a superior predator with intelligence and stamina beyond that of other big-game animals. North American history is dotted with bloody stories of wolves attacking humans (although there is no record of any human being killed by a wolf), as well as killing countless deer, elk, pets and livestock. As a result, the American wolf hunter was born to meet the need for wolf control, a need which was as real at times as it was imagined.

Like the predator he pursues, the wolf hunter is sometimes reviled and hated, sometimes praised and honored. Many despise him because he hunts and kills a symbol of their idea of wilderness. On the other hand, ranchers, hunters and victims hail him as a hero, feed him dinner, listen to his stories and learn from him.

Veteran wolf hunters in the Lower 48 are becoming
increasingly scarce. An occasional newspaper obituary will list the deceased as "wolf hunter." Among old-school sourdoughs, this title is the equivalent of a Ph.D. in outdoor,
survival and hunting skills.

[pagebreak]

The Chase

Wolf hunters still thrive in Alaska, however, and Richard Gardner is living proof that ruggedness is a prerequisite for the chase. Several years ago on a windswept portion of the Delta River, Gardner stopped and pointed out the bubbling current beneath the clear river ice at our feet. The location had special significance for him.

"I could see where the wolves had been chasing moose along this section of river," he said. "I was following their tracks when the river ice began to crack. It was twenty-
below, so I knew the surface was safe for travel. The ice continued to crack and bm. I noticed an up-swelling of frozen groundwater nearby, and observed that the ice wasn't very thick below me. But it was too late to act."

He explained how his snowmobile suddenly broke through the river ice, immersing him to his waist. The river water immediately froze on his jacket and sleeves. He fought off the sudden numbness and scrambled to work the track onto the broken slabs of floating ice. He revved and pushed his machine out of the river before clawing and pulling his way out. With numbed fingers he quickly built a fire and dried out. He kept hunting and trapping and eventually
returned home that season with two wolves.

That's wolf-hunter tough.

Alaska's 7,000 to 10,000 wolves (compared to only 3,200 in the continental United States) make it one of the last bastions for wolf hunters. Don't confuse today's wolf hunter with the aerial hunters of the past or those who used poison to take their prey. The new generation pursues wolves the old-fashioned way-from the ground. And a midwinter wolf hunt is one of the toughest hunts you'll find anywhere.

Wolf hunters endure-almost relish-the raw adversity of a winter hunt because of its challenges and unpredictability. I've accompanied wolf hunters across several hundred miles of wilderness, hanging on to a sled that bucked and darted across the frozen tussocks like an iron bronco. We've stored food and water under snowmobile cowlings to keep them from freezing rock solid in subzero temperatures. I've weathered winter storms in old trapper shacks as the green and red curtains of the Northern Lights blazed overhead. I've read the names and kills of hunters dating back 60 years, carved into smoke-stained cabin walls. I've dug up C rations buried in the thick, sawdust floor of these cabins, and read yellowed books from the 1930s, running my fingers over the penciled annotations in the side margins. Extreme wilderness is an integral part of winter wolf hunting.

Most wolves are taken incidentally to hunting other species. The animal suddenly appears, and you shoot.
I recall one Alaska caribou hunt where I had a rare opportunity. Like mosquitoes hovering just out of reach, two wolves kept just outside the 150-yard safety buffer of several hundred migrating caribou. The pair sneaked through the timbered fringe, waiting to take a wayward or careless animal. I positioned myself for the 200-yard shot without spooking or hitting the caribou that surrounded me. Wolf eyes are always on the prowl for potential danger, and thousands of caribou eyes watch for the slightest movement within their safety zone. Spook the prey, and you spook the predator. As the wolves stopped in a marshy clearing, I fired. I still don't know if the single shot spooked the caribou, or if it was me running up to my trophy.
Such "luck" can occur on do-it-yourself hunts, but usually success requires the local knowledge of a registered guide.

Only a handful of Alaska guides specialize in hunting wolves. Don't expect to find members of this elite group at fancy corporate banquets or tea parties. Look for them in single-light cafes in remote Alaska villages, or huddled around oil heaters in aircraft hangars, waiting for those few precious hours of daylight to fly to their hunting camps.

Insulated bibs and bunny boots make their typically husky physiques even more intimidating. Weathered by extreme cold and sun, their leathery brown faces peer out of parka ruffs lined with wolf or wolverine, the only fur that won't ice up from their frozen breath. This eclectic bunch is usually found in the company of other wolf hunters or trappers. The reason is not surprising: Few others are found in Alaska's February winter wilderness.

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Why Hunt Wolves?

Wayne Heimer has hunted wolves off and on as a Dall sheep biologist with the Alaska Department of Fish and Game. One April, before the grizzly bears emerged from hibernation, Heimer harvested five Dall sheep ewes that would later be sent to a laboratory for analysis. Before
returning to his nearby alpine camp, he stacked the sheep on a mountaintop for the next morning's helicopter pickup. At daybreak he awoke and jumped a black wolf outside his tent. By the time he removed the rifle from his pack and fired, the wolf was passing 400 yards. Heimer missed. He knew why the wolf was there and looked for others, but they too were long gone.

"The pile of sheep had disappeared," he says. "There was no meat. Nothing but hair and a few gnawed-on skulls. Four hundred pounds of sheep consumed overnight."

Master guide and longtime wolf hunter Jim Bailey concurs. "A wolf will kill almost anything, the strong, the weak and even other wolves," he says. "I watched a wolf pack consume a frozen moose in less than a week."

The Call of the Wild

Roy Chaney is a veteran Alaska wolf hunter who takes 9 to 17 wolves each year. While he has never been attacked or charged by a wolf, his methodology will make your hair rise faster than standing naked in the 30-below temperatures he hunts in.

"On moonlit nights, I call 'em in with my voice," he says. "We find a pack and move into the area, keeping to the brush. In the moonlight, the wolves can see your feet in the thickets, but they can't make out who or what you are. They need to check out whether
another wolf pack has invaded their territory, or if wolves from the pack have herded a stray animal.
We've had from ten to as many as thirty-nine wolves surround us, howling to each other, moving in closer and closer. I keep howling back, which is what keeps them interested. They get so focused on hunting you, they forget about snowmobiles running or people coughing. And they get really close at times. Human scent doesn't seem to bother them. One wolf managed to sneak into the 30-yard buffer between my hunting buddy and me."

Chaney hunts wolves because they're the ultimate in wariness and intelligence. "A single wolf will feed on twelve moose and thirty-six caribou a year," he says. "They do need to be managed, and hunting allows that. But I'd be crazy to advocate wiping them out, because to do so would be the
beginning of the end of all that we hold dear here in Alaska."

Longtime Alaska resident Sid Cook was hunting Prince of Wales Island when a pack of wolves surrounded him. "The wolves were running through the timber, surrounding me as I walked through the trees. When wolves howl close to you, they almost sound fake," he says. "The echo, the reverberation isn't there. They were howling and yapping to each other, communicating as hunters. I loaded my rifle and prepared for an attack, but suddenly, the wolves disappeared. It was as frightening as it was eerie."

I stood my ground against wolves when I bagged from hibernation, Heimer harvested five Dall sheep ewes that would later be sent to a laboratory for analysis. Before
returning to his nearby alpine camp, he stacked the sheep on a mountaintop for the next morning's helicopter pickup. At daybreak he awoke and jumped a black wolf outside his tent. By the time he removed the rifle from his pack and fired, the wolf was passing 400 yards. Heimer missed. He knew why the wolf was there and looked for others, but they too were long gone.

"The pile of sheep had disappeared," he says. "There was no meat. Nothing but hair and a few gnawed-on skulls. Four hundred pounds of sheep consumed overnight."

Master guide and longtime wolf hunter Jim Bailey concurs. "A wolf will kill almost anything, the strong, the weak and even other wolves," he says. "I watched a wolf pack consume a frozen moose in less than a week."

The Call of the Wild

Cub Killer

outdoorlife-editor — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 12:26:26 -0400

At first light, the flat, still waters of Uganik Bay reflected a cloudless
indigo sky-a vision of tranquility and grace. But by noon, a maelstrom of wind had whipped the sea into an angry, wild-eyed tigress, her peaking whitecaps watery claws that gouged the Kodiak shoreline.
From our alder windbreak at 2,300 feet, the spectacle was awesome for hunter Joe DeWane and me, as was the other set of claws we were observing-these belonging to one of the island's famed brown bears, who was overturning boulders in a glacial amphitheater 600 yards above us.

DeWane didn't look like a Kodiak bear hunter. His sunburned and windburned face resembled a cherry tomato, his green stocking cap a stem skewed atop his head. Lines of indecision creased his face.
"He's a good one," packer Don Fernandez wheezed between breaths. "He's a nine-footer, a gettable bear."

DeWane watched the bear through his binoculars, turned and studied my face for any sign that would differ from Fernandez's. In camp, we vowed to help DeWane hold out for a 10-foot bear, and this wasn't it. As expected, he was waffling under the temptation. And if I had been in his position, I'd have waffled too.
A typical 15-day Kodiak bear hunt costs $15,000. It's a superhuman test of physical, mental and financial endurance. This was DeWane's third. A physician whose hobbies are hunting and running marathons, he had proven he could handle the hardships and disappointments of the Kodiak environment. On the two previous hunts, he had stalked and eventually passed up eight- and nine-foot bears. He wondered if his obsession was overtaking his rational thought.

I zoomed in with my telephoto lens. The bear resembled an oversized hyena with his mottled spots of unbroken dark hair on light-colored areas of rubbed hide.

"Ugliest damn bear I've ever seen," I mumbled, using my camera to hide my grin. The words had us laughing and catcalling as we headed down the mountainside.

It was a good call. Halfway through our five-mile hike back to camp, I sensed a watchful gaze looking down on us. It was almost dusk, but the form stood out as clearly as if it were standing in the light of noon.
A huge boar appeared on the mountain's snowy white complexion. The bear was partially hidden by a few alder clumps. Below him were a sow and two cubs, and he appeared to be stalking them. The bear was the length of an SUV, and had a massive head. We watched him in the fading light, and our hopes were high that the next morning he would be ours.

A Savage Attack

In the morning, we failed to spot the bear from afar, so Fernandez climbed a nearby ridge overlooking the high country. Guide Jim Bailey, DeWane and I stayed on an open hillside that offered a good field of fire if the bear should step into the open. We were ready. An arsenal of optics pointed at the hillside: two spotting scopes, three cameras with zoom lenses, three binoculars. For two hours...nothing.

Then a motion caught our attention. Fernandez half plowed, half fell down the brushy hillside, the erratic movements of a man distancing himself from danger. We scanned the land behind and around him and chambered rounds. We saw nothing, but our hairs stood on end in the hot spring sun.

Fernandez shook his head, trying to find the words. "I just saw that big boar kill one of those cubs," he said. "He might have killed the other one too. Those poor little guys didn't have a chance against that big ol' bear."

We wanted to see the evidence for ourselves and started to climb. The snow had long ago melted at the lower elevations. We visually dissected the drab alder thickets as we climbed. Like blankets tossed onto unmade beds, piles of leaves-musty from their long decay under winter snows-pockmarked the hillside. These were bear daybeds, and one was twice the size of a king-sized mattress.

A smaller, fur-covered lump in a clearing supcharged our already heightened awareness. The sight begged for the boar to charge us now, so retribution could be served.

"He's just a little guy, a milk bear who didn't have a chance," Fernandez said. "That big boar just tossed him around like a rag doll."

The three of us cringed at this infanticide. The cub was the size of a small Labrador retriever. Tooth and claw had sliced jagged cuts through its furry muzzle. Brown sand tightly packed the spaces of the bear's emerging teeth. My own teeth tightened as I envisioned the scene. The cub's only
reaction had been to bite again and again into the dirt as the boar viciously bit its snout and neck. The difference in the skull sizes was like a watermelon compared to an orange. The cub died when the boar's canine pierced its skull, creating a hole the size of a thumb above the right eye socket.

We groped for possible explanations, but only one seemed to fit. Boars often kill cubs to bring sows into heat. The boar can then breed with the sow, to ensure she carries and nurtures his offspring, and not those of some other boar. This seemed unusually cruel, even for nature. The quest for a 10-footer no longer mattered. We were now pursuing a cub killer. Nine feet or eleven feet, it didn't matter. We all vowed to kill the bear.

Search for a Killer

We waited on stand at the base of the hill, stewing in an emotional soup of anger and impatience and empathy for the dead cub. We waited that entire day, and the next. The boar never showed. We retreated to base camp for a greater field of view in glassing the high alpine.

Bailey was up each morning before the rest of us were, peering through his spotting scope with the intensity of an astronomer searching for a new star. A 30-year veteran of Kodiak brown bear hunting, he knew 10-footers were warier than other bears. He was looking for a blip, a hiccup in the normal rhythm of nature, a subtle difference that most of us wouldn't see.

The round, dark dot, more than a mile away, was typical of the hundreds he had glassed in the last five days. His gloved hand slowly rotated the focus ring. As the shadows from the clouds traced a gray swath across the snowy mountainside, the dot moved in the opposite direction. Bingo.

I zoomed in with my spotting scope. Was it the cub killer? The next image in our spotting scopes-at once alarming yet impossible to look away from-gave us our answer.

The boar nosed the perimeter of the left ridgeline. We
observed a sow and cub huddled on a rock ledge the size of a door, about 12 feet below the bruin. The ledge was atop a sheer rock face of several hundred feet.

The cub bobbed its head up and down, exhibiting a youthful urge to play with the approaching boar. The boar's head hung heavy off his long neck, swaying back and forth like a pendulum. Watching him slog through the snow, I
envisioned the boar's mouth dripping saliva and the nose flared to capture the scent of his next victim. The cub fidgeted, torn between play and caution. The sow stood fully upright, her head nudging the cub back down onto the shelf. She
remained standing, looking at the boar.

Despite her smaller size, the sow had the advantage. The bears faced each other for nearly five minutes. The only way to the cub was a frontal attack. For the boar, there could be no flanking maneuver or side ambush. He would have to kill her in order to reach the cub.

The boar reacted with the savvy of a seasoned predator. He backed off and bedded down. Cold, instinctive patience.

For the remainder of the day, few camp chores were accomplished, as all available spotting scopes and binoculars were focused on the unfolding alpine drama. The standoff was still going strong when the curtain of night left the final act unfinished. We ate dinner and emboldened ourselves for the next day's strategy.

A Dangerous Stalk

The approach to the bears was treacherous. Avalanche danger was high. Sheets of icy overflow covered the rock faces and cliffs, with midday ground seepage making for slippery handholds and footholds. The wind would be blowing uphill in the morning, and the heat waves would take our scent up the mountain, potentially spooking the bears.

At first light, fate smiled upon us. In the purple hue of predawn, we only needed a minute to verify the boar was
retreating to the lower mountainside. Higher up, we saw that the sow and cub were still alive. If the boar headed into the alder thickets at the base of the mountain we would in all likelihood lose him. We had a window of opportunity to go after the bear, but that window was rapidly closing. Within minutes, we were in the skiff and bouncing atop the waves to the opposite shoreline.

Once on shore, Bailey said the climb would take a minimum of three hours. We packed light, knowing we would need to push our endurance to the edge.

We clawed and pulled our way through the buckbrush of the lower elevations, spurred on by thoughts of the cub and the cub killer. What if the bear was dropping down only to ambush the sow and cub at a later time? Or ambush us?

Two hours later, we cleared the first ridge...and froze. The cub killer was rapidly sliding headfirst down an avalanche chute 600 yards above us, dislodging boulder-sized chunks of frozen snowpack. The boar slowed and walked stilt-legged, thrusting paws firmly into the snow's wind-hardened surface.

The boar emerged from the snow and climbed to the safety of a rock ledge, then quickly disappeared down the alder-
infested hillside to our left. We circled right and climbed higher, keeping the wind in our faces and skirting the rock cornices to maintain a good field of fire.

We climbed, slipped and stumbled our way up to the timberline. Looking up at one last cliff to scale, we immediately stopped. The sow was leading her single cub down to the food and water of the lowlands. They were about 300 yards above us and to our left. We watched as she showed the small cub, with uncommon patience and human-like tenderness, how to descend the rock cliff, often nudging it gently to drop down to the next ledge. Meanwhile, the boar could have been waiting below in ambush. For us to continue along our planned route would have meant either a charge by the protective sow or spooking the two of them toward the boar. Neither was an option. Our only other choice was to continue upward along a hazardous route in order to prevent the bears from seeing or winding us.

As we ascended, barbs from devils club plants pierced our hands, arms and legs. We crawled up onto the massive
expanse of an open ridgeline and stood up. The glare from the treeless, snowy alpine blinded us. After a half-hour of busting Dangerous Stalk

Bear Guide Down

outdoorlife-editor — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 20:00:00 -0400

For three weeks, hunting guides Jim Bailey and Jesse Gray had been guiding
spring brown-bear hunters near the southern tip of the Alaska Peninsula.

A Desperate Hike