Berries and Bones: The White Mountains in Alaska

Alaska, Of Berries and Bones: The White Mountains National Recreation Area.

I live in Alaska. When you say that, most people probably envision the soaring, snowcapped peaks of Denali towering over an autumn-hued tundra; a grizzly bear or bull moose or lone wolf standing proudly on a ridgeline. Or it just might be the blue-tinged glaciers and thick, green forests spilling down from the rugged mountains that proliferate the Kenai or Alaska Peninsulas. Maybe it’s where the ocean meets the sky after wading through wildflower meadows and scaling the steep, coastal slopes of the Inside Passage or Turnagain Arm outside of Anchorage, Alaska’s largest city.

And it’s alright to think of these places because that is what I saw in my dreams of Alaska before I came north for my future. It’s what I have seen in my travels around the Great Land since that long summer day over twenty years ago. But I live in Fairbanks which is almost a bulls-eye in the middle of our sprawling state. The nearest glaciers and snowcapped mountains, outside of winter…and half of the spring…and fall, lie over a couple of hours south in the Alaska Range where Denali imposes itself on the roof of North America. The nearest ocean is a lot farther than that.

But we are not without our beauty. This is still Alaska after all and you know what they say about the eyes of the beholder. If we are not drop-dead gorgeous, then we can at least be considered classically beautiful. While we may not be a Ferrari, we are still a Mercedes.

We get by on our subtle elegance, not our flash and eye-candy appeal. Fairbanks, although Alaska’s second-largest “city”, is associated more for the ability to wear heavily-used Carhartts for any occasion or being one of the last places in America where outhouse use is still practiced by a sizable portion of the populace, than some of the words I just wrote. Still, the Golden Heart City has some great spots around it.

The most popular is the Chena River State Recreation Area. It is well used year-round with people enjoying the river and granite-filled mountains during endless, summer days while geothermal hot springs shimmer and steam in the winter glow of the northern lights. Although the Chena area is well appreciated, and deservedly so, the place I like to escape to is the same distance from my house as those favorite Chena trails while containing the tallest, most rugged mountains in the area, topping out at almost a mile above sea level in the million-acre wilderness of the White Mountains National Recreation Area.

It is a place I have been going to since I first came to Alaska and though it is primarily used in the winter for the miles of dog mushing and cross-country skiing opportunities, replete with firewood-stocked rental cabins along the way, it offers hikers unmatched solitude if not a plethora of trails. Most of Alaska’s parks are true wilderness areas with few if any, established pathways beyond what the animals create for themselves or humans make from the popularity of a particular place.

The White Mountains have wildlife and wild vistas. They have granite tors erupting from mountain tops and cold-stream crossings to bursting fields of blueberries. On one of my very first forays into the Mount Prindle area of the White Mountains in the Steese National Conservation Area, I witnessed a two-hundred strong herd of caribou roaming down a valley behind American Creek. I immediately fell in love with the area a little over an hour north of Fairbanks.

Grizzles and wolves not only roam the desolate mountains but have also been seen meandering through the two basic campgrounds. Native trout run in the crystal-clear and mind-numbingly cold waters of Nome Creek. Hikers have entire mountains to themselves. On clear days you can look past the ridges stretching endlessly into the distance for over a hundred miles to Denali rising in the south.

It is a place where the snow lingers into June and can arrive in August. It is rugged and raw and worth keeping it that way. On my last visit, I went to fill the freezer with blueberries for the wife and kids. I don’t get out as much as I used to, so the times I do get to visit my mountains are special and anticipated. I planned to visit the fields I have visited for years knowing there are far more berries than I can ever hope to pick. It’s also my chance to go hiking and enjoy the beauty that is a fall day in the Whites.

The tundra turns various shades of red, yellow, and ochre. Fat clouds streak swiftly across a vivid blue sky. The mountain tops, bathed in sun and whipped by the wind, stand rocky and grey. It’s a perfect day except for one thing. I’m too late for the blueberries. For whatever reason, they seem to come earlier every year and I missed them in this one. More of a disappointment for my family than myself, I now have two days to explore the mountains that call me to wander.

I break off a short trail and head toward the ridgeline, trudging upward over the spongy tundra.  Slow and steady, I take a break at a small patch of blueberries still clinging onto the season’s end.  Desiccated and fragile, ready to pop their sweet, dark juice and stain anything they contact, I pick them carefully and feel a slight, but fleeting guilt that these will be the only berries I pick, despite the eager little mouths back home.

“Sorry kids, daddy tried, my bad”, as I gobble down the soft and sweet fruit with sticky juice running down my chin.

I clear cut the little field and continue upward, eventually cresting the first ridge, only to see more looming higher in the distance. Up and up I go until a natural pass appears between the rounded, rocky peaks. As I head toward it, I see a huge set of gnarled antlers being overtaken by the moss and lichens. I dig them out and stash them by a conspicuous set of rocks, aiming into the high mountains once again.

Not a hundred feet later, another lone antler arches up from the tundra. It still has some nice points and brown color to it so I backtrack to put it with the others. I return on my path to the pass and enjoy the solitude and starkness of the high peaks for a few hours before descending back to my cache of caribou antlers.

I manage to awkwardly wrap the three large horns into the straps of my backpack and head down from the wind-swept ridges. After a few hundred feet, I see another flash of white, conspicuous against the fall colors painted all around me. I scoop up another big antler thinking at least now I have one for each of my kids.

Not what they were expecting, but at least something anyway. The cool factor would be there in ways that the tasty berries could not evoke, although the lack of blueberry muffins for the winter made my stomach rumble a bit in protest. I was about a mile from the campground and my truck when I heard a distinct sound. It was like a loud but muffled cough and it froze me in my tracks. I slowly turned towards the noise but didn’t see a thing. I crouched and waited, taking a drink before rising to scan the tundra once more.

I could see fast-moving clouds covering the sun and watch the bare peaks plunge into shadow. I saw the autumn-red leaves of the blueberry bushes splash their color at my feet. I watched the wind sculpt the low-spruce trees and felt a tinge of winter to the air, but with no sign as to the cause of the noise, I continued down and out with cautious optimism.

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I merged back onto the trail and crossed Nome Creek, yelling at the brutal coldness of the water and painful tingling in my lower legs. I hobbled back to my truck and a hiker impressed with my haul. A couple walking the campground with their dog came up to me and said they were scoping me coming down the mountain, asking if I saw the bear?

The bear? No. Thankfully I did not see the bear, but I was now sure I heard it. They said we had both stopped at the same time and it looked over at me from about a hundred feet away before wheeling around to bolt down to the creek in the other direction. With the reassurance of people and safely back at my truck, I could smile and laugh, shake my head, and feel lucky. I could gaze back into those darkening mountains and enjoy the wild realities of an area I love to be; a place of stark and vivid beauty where bears roam the ridgelines and caribou herd in the valleys. It’s a place that’s rugged and timeless, it’s a place….of berries and bones.