Gulkana River Float Trip, Alaska 2008

Gate D1. Out the airport terminal window to my left a TSA agent lazily gives a visual scan to the bottom of the aircraft I am soon to board. His calm mannerisms tell me he has not found anything shady taped to the bottom of the aircraft. (sigh of relief). To my right I am enjoying a fantastic display of people watching, rivaled only by county fairs and demolition derby crowds. In approximately five hours I will have departed the familiarity of the lower 48 to experience Alaska for the first time.

Ship Creek
I have been in Alaska for less than 24 hours. During low tide I hooked into a 30+ lb Chinook (King) salmon two blocks from the hotel. Locals cheered and scampered to my side with gaping nets. Fortunately for the fish, it escaped the hooks clench and left my psyche shaken for the better part of the day. Had I hooked onto a deer running at full speed I don't think the feeling would have been much different.

Alex
I met Troy H. at a forestry show in 2008, a USDA Forest Service ecologist and aspiring bison hunter. Now, several months later, the bison has been harvested and I am lined up to raft the Gulkana River for three days with his friend Alex. Alex, whom I had never met, picks me up in Anchorage and we go to his apt to plan our float trip. There I meet his girlfriend Mellissa, two cats, and two black labs. The living room is furnished with a pair of huge sea kayaks and a structure Alex built from used pallets—the cats call this home. Mellisa tells me about the projects she is working on at an environmental consulting firm, as she sews button holes on an impressive shirt she has tailored. They are both very friendly and I quickly feel at home with one of their large white cats snuggled on my lap. We will float the river two days from now when my work obligations are complete.

Seward
I awake to the sun and check my watch—2 am. The sun has already made its brief dip below the horizon. I have been averaging a meager four hours of sleep per night and groan at the early awakening. Later that morning I meet the other conference attendees at the train station for a tour to Seward, Alaska, and a boat ride in the bay. This was an unexpected perk of the conference. My primary focus while in Alaska is the Association of Consulting Foresters Annual Conference. Most of the attendees are small business owners and consultants who attend the conference all day, while their families enjoy planned activities and pseudo local dishes. I spend most of the tour hanging out with Peter and Tim from ESRI. We have a good time joking around about subjects that occasionally touch on conference related topics. I attended the trip with low expectations, assuming that the tour will be nothing more than a booze cruise with souvenir stops along the way. To my surprise it turns out to be an amazingly good time with stellar views and wildlife sightings. The highlight of the excursion takes place when a humpback whale swims directly at the boat, makes a last second dive and reappears on the other side. I am no more than 20 feet way. We also see orcas, sea lion, porpoise, seal, black bear, and various sea birds.

Into the Wild
The conference is now over and I wait above Anchorage's Alaskan Railroad building for Alex to pick me up. We make some last minute preparations and head for the interior. The Glen Allen Highway is much like one would expect: remote, vast, and scenic. My mind becomes desensitized to the awe of Alaska's grandeur as we pass several dozen majestic peaks. After five hours of winding highway, we decided to camp in the village of Glenn Allen. On the surface it appears to be a one road town, complete with enough churches to convert Ozzy Osborne, yet too small of a population to fill a movie theater. We sleep on the lawn of a public works facility and my dreams are both blessed and plagued by mind-conjured trophy fishing and intermittent bear attacks.

Paxon Lake to Sourdough Campground
It is morning. We eat breakfast. This will be my last meal that does not consist of fish mixed with something. By now I have spent enough time with Alex that I can tell we are much alike. Our personalities mesh well, we were born the same year, both laugh and joke about nearly everything, and expect nothing more than a lifetime of adventure. Alex grew up in a small Midwestern town (population 900) and exudes a relaxed rural persona. He has degree in forestry and is going to be studying to become a teacher in the near future. His current job at a kayak and rafting shop has scored us the use of a 14 ft raft.

With the raft in the water we travel a few miles to the outlet of Paxon Lake. Our only form of road transportation, the borrowed truck, disappears into the distance. This decision will leave us 50 miles down stream, and without vehicle, three intense days later. Alex assures me that hitch hiking in Alaska is as simple as hailing a cab in New York City. However, it is my plane that will not wait should complications prevent us from arriving at the Anchorage airport on time. The timeline allows for little error.

From the very beginning the fishing is phenomenal. I score two large lake trout as we troll across Paxon. As we transition from lake to river we begin catching rainbow trout, arctic grayling, and mountain whitefish. This success will continue for 3 days. Despite the fact that the sun still seems to be at full tilt, the first night has arrived. We have been rafting for approximately eight hours. Our pre-trip calculations would have us at around one-third of the way to the bottom. Alex consults the GPS for the first time and his face displays a puzzled look. It feels like we have traveled countless miles but the digital map reveals that we have made minimal progress. It does not even appear as if the GPS has drawn a line yet. In the larger scheme of things we are still right next to Paxon Lake. Instantly my mind jumps back to my first solo business trip when I ran down the airport jet-way to see the doors closed and my plane backing away. Luckily a bold airport attendant was kind enough to bang on the side of the jet and they opened the door.

A rough calculation tells us that if we row down stream for nearly 20 hours per day I will make my red-eye flight early Sunday morning. Our arrangement for the next two days consists of one of us rowing, one of us fishing, and both of us sleeping for a few hours per night. Amazingly we never really experience tiredness as hours of river slowly pass below the boat. When it is all over we will have rafted nearly 55 miles, caught at least a hundred fish, and rowed enough raft to be bumped from novice to semi-pro.

Besides a vicious section of Class III+ rapids most of the river is fairly benign. The books recommend that anyone less than an expert portage the Class III+ area. The size of our raft did not allow us a choice so without reluctance we went for it. Plus, Alex works the rental shop so we are about as close to expert as it gets—I assure myself. The most treacherous part of the rapids offers three route choices: dangerous, more dangerous, and really dangerous. We inadvertently choose "really dangerous" and luckily come out high-fiving each other. It was truly an incredible rush to have all our gear lashed tightly to the boat, be in the middle of nowhere, and shoot some serious rapids with little experience—much more intense than experiences I have had on the big waters of the Snake River.

The first indication of our take-out point (Sourdough Campground) is the massive Alaskan Pipeline arcing high above the Gulkana River. It does not look big enough that a tractor trailer could drive down it, like I have heard, but it is still an impressive piece of engineering. The last stretch of river is bitter sweet and when our boat hits shore three amazing days have slipped away. My mind, fogged with sleep deprivation, can not segment the period of time on the river into separate days. The lack of darkness has a strange effect on my internal clock and the float becomes a surreal memory. Viewing pictures taken during the journey strangely remind me that the events truly took place. Alex begins to dissect the raft as I head to the road with high hopes to hitch back to Paxon Lake where the truck patiently waits. Despite our timely arrival at Sourdough the clock still allows little room for error. Sourdough is approximately five hours from Anchorage and my flight leaves tonight.

After an hour and a half of unsuccessful hitch hiking I begin to worry. My outstretched thumb, having failed me on a dozen or so passing cars, instinctively becomes an outstretched hand with palm facing straight out. The same gesture a cop would use to halt traffic. It works. An interesting fellow on his way to Fairbanks cheerfully gives me transport to the Paxon Lake turn-off and the plan is back in motion. After a mile long jog to the parking lot and nearly an hour drive back to Sourdough, I pick up Alex who has been sleeping beside our neatly arranged gear and disassembled raft. With the highlight of the trip in the rearview we drive the same Glenn Allen Highway back to Anchorage in the opposite direction. It is almost as if the experience is rewinding as I see the same landmarks in reverse order. That night Alex drops me off at the airport and I say good bye to a new friend. It will take a week before I adjust to the normal cycle of day and night and begin to realize how lucky I am to have been hooked up with this trip by Troy and Alex.

Conclusion
As I sit in Logan, Utah, weeks after the trip, I still have to look at photographs to believe any of it really happened. It was an experience I am very grateful for. I am confident that this rafting trip will remain in my top five adventures for the duration of my life.