Wilderness Adventure: Lost Mountain

by Roland Welker

 

I manage to follow the river right off the map. Then a drop in temperature freezes the side sloughs and starts the ice running hard. I power up and make a run at the shore. An overloaded 20-foot welded aluminum boat with a 40-horse motor is anything but light, and the partial beaching costs me a broken oar, soaked boots and gloves. But then, using a come-along brought just for this sort of thing, I haul the boat the rest of the way clear, turn and watch the ice claim the little pool of open water.

A feeling of exhilaration comes over me. It happens whenever my only means of transport back to civilization is cut off, especially when I’m in unfamiliar country with a Far North winter fast approaching.

We of the kith call it “freezing in.”

The urge to prospect new fur territory has landed me about as far out in the Alaska bush as imaginable, or maybe unimaginable. All summer long, I had prepared to trap an area a hard day’s boat ride out of my base camp. Most of the gear and supplies had been freighted in the preseason. And then, from that point, I had managed to pull my outfit another day’s run farther out. Hopefully, I have read the sign correctly and fur will abound.

I am well provisioned for a two-month trapline campaign. Then, I will have to cache my camp and furs and either pack out on foot or arrange for an air pickup.

The large items include: snow machine and sled, canoe, wall tents, wood-stoves, chain saw, 55-gallon drum of gasoline, 100 marten traps, a dozen big traps, several dozen snares, fur stretchers and tools. There’s also miscellaneous camp equipment and warm bedding (very important), plus cooking gear and two months of rations.

I had hauled it all in three giant boatloads, carefully navigating the shoal crossings. The last trip had been a close call. But I had to make it, with the rest of the outfit already upstream. I was grossly overloaded, which caused me to bottom out at the upper shoals. I unloaded half the cargo, which was a nice load in itself. Then, with constant attention to the outboard’s finer adjustment, I made it on to deeper water. Next morning, a repeat performance finished off the job.

It was a fun little trip, and I am pumped for an outrageous winter. First three nights I spend in a tarp wicki-up with my bunk close to the big stove. It is clear weather, with daytime highs of plus 10 Fahrenheit and minus 10 lows at night. I scout the terrain near camp and catch fish for bait and dinner, before the ice gets too thick. Since I am hindered with no map, I climb above timberline early one morning for a look in all directions. I am well pleased with what I see: river lowlands with large timber running north and south; mountains to the east and open tundra to the west; this country offers a little of everything.

Fighting an almost irresistible desire to be out ranging over all of this winter wonderland, I instead spend my days establishing a secure camp.

First order is getting my gear and provisions up off the ground. All is scattered about randomly, and I fear a big snow could bury and hide a lot of it. I learned this lesson years ago at a camp in the Montana high country. An early snow hid the only ax in camp, for the duration of the hunt. And, sure enough, next day I’m tramping around in 10 inches of new snow, very glad the gear is stowed. I’m equipped with a good shovel and happy to see the snow, because I will need it to use the snowmobile.

I get to work setting up two canvas wall tents. One would suffice, but two makes it first-class: a brand new 8-by-10 for cooking and lodging, and an old 12-by-14 for storage, fur handling and drying space. I use both internal and external frames fashioned from gun-barrel-straight spruce poles cut on site. Cabins are great, but for a one-season camp, you can’t beat fresh canvas.

Then, the firewood must be gathered, and a couple of cords cut and split is not too much. A good friend became deathly ill on an extended winter trip, due to some corrupt sardines. For several days, all he could manage was to feed the stove. If he hadn’t had a pile of wood stocked alongside the tent, it might have turned grim.

The canoe won’t be needed again until spring. So I hoist it up into a spruce out of reach even for a brown bear (over 10 feet). November 1 is our trapping season opener in Alaska, and winter seems to be fast settling in. Although the waters are frozen, heavy snow is pushing down the thin ice, creating the dreaded overflow. But it will make good, thick ice later when it all freezes.

I can’t stand it anymore, so I make a couple of pole sets on either end of the slough, plus a scent-stick set for wolves, with some snares tossed about for backup. I heard a pack howling in the morning, real close, and it got my hackles up. Wolf serenades before breakfast are a sure sign you’re in true wilderness. I hope to thin them out a little when they pass back through. They can stay in my spare tent (hanging from the ridge pole).

A whole pod of otters comes through at the mouth of the slough. Looks like a family of five with some very big ones. There’s a mink hanging around, too. It seems interested in my fish cache. I’ll let it alone until mid-November, as it takes that long for mink to prime up.

Next morning, a pole set holds an extra-large 26-inch marten with a real rich pumpkin color and thick, heavy leather. Alaska’s marten come in a variety of shades: blonde, brown, orange, pale, dark.

I continue with camp preparation and await favorable traveling conditions. Past excursions have taught me not to fight it. If you don’t have good snow for the snowmobile, you just spin your tracks and burn gas. I must use my 55 gallons wisely.

Besides, this is the perfect spot for winter quarters. From camp, there’s an unobstructed vista of Lost Mountain. Each clear morning I’m blessed to watch the sun rise over this magnificent peak. It’s actually a small mountain by Alaska standards. A good hiker could walk around it in a long, long day.

But its sharp rise out of surrounding lowlands makes it look like a behemoth. The steep sides are covered with a thick mix of birch and spruce, while some south-facing ravines hold stands of truly giant timber. A recent forest fire has ravaged the lower terraces, only adding to the character and mystique of the wild scene. The river passes tight along the western base, and for this stretch, the unruly little stream lines out beautifully.

My camp is actually at the base of Young Women’s Hill, on a pike slough, facing Lost Mountain. It’s a good harbor for riverboats, and, when frozen, the straight leg of river is enough to land a Piper Super Cub on skis, and there’s just enough usable strip to get off with a light load of passenger and furs.

Yet nobody ever comes here.

Camp chores are complete, and the overflow has abated. I’m trying out the big stove by heating bath water. I’m getting real close to laying out some serious iron, and I like to start serious trapping with everything as clean as possible, including me. An empty storage bin provides a 15-gallon tub while a discarded pressure cooker pot heats 5 gallons super hot.

After I haul all the water needed, I drop a fishing line into the hole I made in the ice. Wham! A big pike takes my silver spoon. Bright spoons are a good choice for all-round northern fishing. I hang my fish up to partially freeze nice and straight, making for easy filleting.

That night, as I am finishing my bath, I think I hear a marten outside. I can’t be sure, though, as I am standing beside a roaring stove. Second time, there’s no mistaking the sound of a trapped marten in a pole set just 30 yards out from camp. I hurriedly dress and go collect a whopper of a marten that fills out my broadest stretcher nicely. I have landed in a choice spot this year—pike in the water hole and marten caught sneaking into camp.

Five days later, I’ve got about a mile of sets out and the boards are beginning to fill. There’s a dozen marten stretched and drying. This morning starts similar to others. I light the woodstove right from my sleeping bag. It is set up to be easily reached from bed. The coffee pot is charged from the night before. It doesn’t matter if it freezes or not, as it will soon be perking over a hot spruce fire. Then it is back for a short nap before waking up 30 minutes later to a cozy tent and fresh brew.

With java in hand, I’m outside for first call. I always check my first set from here. It’s the same one that took the marten on bath night.

I’m still a little bleary eyed when I look and see a wolverine going crazy on the end of that pole. It seems to be in perpetual motion, testing the quality of the swivel system on the little Victor Newhouse No. 1 longspring. Kind of puts me in mind of the Tazmanian Devil in the Bugs Bunny cartoons.

Old-timers have told me of wolverines being taken in small footholds at pole sets for marten, but this is a first for me, and I don’t think it figures to hang around long. With two shots from my .17 HMR Winchester 94, I dispatch the Hercules of the weasel clan.

Wolverines are notoriously hard to hold in a trap, and three factors contributed to this unikely success. First, it was a front-foot catch. Wolverines have powerfully developed front quarters and necks, but with its strong arm in the trap, it can’t fight as hard. Second, this is a stout green pole, well fastened and high enough off the ground to partially suspend even a wolverine. Third, and probably most significant, the trap is brand new and first-rate, manufactured by Oneida Victor. It’s hard to go wrong with this time-honored outfit, and this wolverine certainly has put their No. 1 to the test, even bending a link of chain. A cheaper grade of steel surely would have failed.

Still standing there, somewaht flabbergasted, I happen to look toward camp in time to see a marten hopping along between the tents. Now I’m waking up fast.

As I hang up my wolverine, I notice where some serious inroads have been made on the fish box. And right about then, another marten comes strolling up the trail. Upon seeing me, this one scoots up a spruce.

Although the .17 rifle performs superbly on large furs (it’s a wonderful beaver gun), I fear the speeding bullet will leave a gaping exit hole in such a small critter. But I also figure this camp-raider has got to go, anyway, so I take the shot.

After the marten tumbles out of the treetop, it kind of looks like it’s been whacked with an ax. Well, now I know.

A quick tour of the nearby marten sets reveals nothing, but I do see another one coming along the hill, headed right toward camp.

I set a trap to guard my bait supply. Then I leave to run the rest of my short line. I return early to get a jump-start on the lengthy task of wolverine skinning and see that while I’ve been gone, the marten have bypassed my trap and made off with yet more bait. This is getting out of hand. I lost a large portion of my bait for the season on the harrowing trip upriver. Now, the remainder is being hit by a marten mob. I readjust the trap and declare war by booby-trapping camp every which way.

I catch two more marten in camp that evening and figure my problems are over. But later that night, a fierce growling comes from under the birch pile.

I probe along the wood with my flashlight, and a pair of eyes flashes back at me. Not even hesitating this time, I shoot the .17, and it shreds another hide. I hate to lose valuable pelts, but it seems there’s plenty more to be had, and these guys have to go. The log pile makes too perfect a home, with a big grub supply aboard. If they eat up my camp, I’m in bad trouble. The little rifle is proving to be very valuable for varmint control. Another wolverine comes by, but this one slicks through a pair of snares without seeming to even break stride.

By the last days of November, I am starting to get antsy. The weather has turned off and on, freezing cold then warm and thawing. Camp is a soggy mess after two days of rain. The river ice and all my hard-won trails are just barely holding together. Those reports you keep hearing about global warming in the Arctic are true, and it is the bane of the Northern trapper. Travel is much more difficult and dangerous, plus there are other problems, such as meat spoilage and traps freezing down constantly. Fortunately, I’ve already collected two dozen prime marten from my walking line. Also in the fur tent are a large red fox and a buck mink, both sporting rich winter fur.

Mid-December finally brings more winter-like weather. Ten below zero is the norm; plenty of firewood and a tight tent keep me toasty. The AM radio stations are beginning to play Christmas carols. The fur pile grows steadily, if somewhat painstakingly.

Every winter I anticipate a fight or two with overflow—water on top of the ice but hidden under snow cover, sometimes up to 2 feet deep in swamps and low land. It can stop a snow machine in an instant, especially if the machine is pulling a loaded sled. Overflow has led to many a case of frostbite and more than a few abandoned sno-goes. Hypothermia and death by freezing are very real dangers this far from help.

It is only 8 below for this season’s first serious go-round with overflow. I get caught in a small swamp, and the water is just about knee deep, making things real interesting. As soon as the snow is blown off, the icy water begins to instantly freeze. I am soon ice-encrusted from the waist down. The machine is icing up fast, too.

After some brief and pointless pushing, I realize the machine must be unloaded and shoveled out. This is hurriedly accomplished by tossing everything into a pile on the snow and slush: ice pick, traps, pack, thermos, rifle, snowshoes, axe, parka. With everything freezing fast, I can’t take the time to haul it all to higher ground.

Shoveling helps somewhat, and several heaves that leave me dizzy and seeing stars help even more. Finally free, I drive onto good trail and then make two trips back in on foot to recover my gear.

It took a gut-wrenching effort to lift out my little Bravo, weighted down with a couple hundred pounds of ice. One of those oversized models would still be setting there. At times like this, the remote traveler is thankful for small, lightweight machines, which are becoming scarce. As manufacturers keep adding extras and horses, they also add size and weight. Fortunately, Yamaha is again producing the Bravo model.

The rest of the day is spent drying out gear, the Bravo, and myself. While in the tent coming back to life, I get a message over the AM radio, sandwiched in between Christmas carols. A friend is flying up in his Piper Super Cub to check me out. I figure he’ll see my trail from the air and track it into my new camp, or maybe stop at the old cabin and find the note I left telling of my move upriver. It’s good news at the right time. Messages over AM radio are an uplifting and valuable service provided by most of the stations that broadcast to interior Alaska.

My marten count continues to grow, mostly XXL males, truly some of the finest furs of my career. The ratio of males to females is excellent at one sister to every six brothers, telling me the area was due for harvest. Another large buck mink is nabbed, this one in a textbook stovepipe setup. I’d seen the stovepipe set for mink illustrated in countless books but had never before tried it. With tent camps I always bring extra stovepipe, and I had used a damaged length of 6-inch to construct this set. I baited it with the glands from the first mink I had caught and guarded it with a No. 1-1/2 coilspring.

Typically, I don’t fool with beaver trapping while out after marten as it requires different gear. But the larder is getting awfully low, and the thought of a fat beaver has me hacking through 20 inches of ice to set a snare at a house where I had spotted a big boy before freeze-up. My efforts are well rewarded with a super blanket beaver. A beaver of this size goes a long way in the cook pot, and the pelt measures 45 inches in length and 27 in width, stretched oval in the Canadian style. Beaver hides are very durable, and I’ll use this one to roll the marten skins for the trip out.

My snare set was just a couple of 10-inch loops hung under the ice with a 3-inch-diameter peeled birch stick for bait. Both the mink set and this beaver set couldn’t have been simpler, and they had one other thing in common; they both were in a position where the target animal couldn’t help but find them.

My trail follows the natural contour of the land, the path of least resistance. This is the route most animals take, also. By taking my time to scout out the best avenue, I also put my traps in line with more fur. Of course, I am not the first trapper to realize this, and I find proof that I’m following the beat of previous fur men, possibly from the dog sled era, as I discover two old pole sets along my route.

The first is one man’s simple yet effective version of the northern pole set. Although hanging kind of low, the trap has remained off the ground and in fine shape. It is an older No. 1-1/2 Victor longspring, with the spring struck to weaken it for a softer catch on small animals. A single whack from the back of the trapper’s single bit ax probably accomplished this adjustment.

I elevate the pole and put the trap back into service. The set ends up taking two martens, but both are hind-foot catches, which I don’t particularly like. I believe the bigger No. 1-1/2 longspring allowed these martens to climb too far out onto the trap. When reaching to the bait, they stepped on the pan with a back foot. No. 1 longsprings are my marten trap of choice; they almost always make a front-foot catch.

Any animal can fight a trap more with both front paws free. Plus, it seems other martens love to throttle their unfortunate cousins when they find them hanging upside down, often damaging the pelt beyond salvage; a marten hanging head high, even a dead one, is far less likely to be molested, though I have no idea why.

Cannibalism can be a real problem in areas with high marten populations. Fox and lynx also are fond of marten snacks found hanging from poles.

The other old set is found along the edge of a high-water oxbow lake. This one is down and in poor condition, made with a Victor No. 0 longspring. I prop up the pole against a large spruce, with trap snapped and still attached, to serve as a trail mark and also to preserve a little piece of trapping history. I am pretty sure these sets were made by different men from different eras.

I find another old trap in an unlikely place. It is with a bundle of traps I brought in with me. I realize this when a particular set is difficult to prepare. The trap doesn’t seem to fit the pole as securely as at other sets, even though I am doing nothing differently.

On closer inspection, I notice the trap is different. Although it is a Victor No. 1, the pan has stamped lettering instead of scrawled, and a big square rivet holds together the two-piece frame. Spot welding took the place of those rivets long ago. I purchased the traps from a dealer who was also a trap collector. This one must have escaped his keen eye for vintage iron.

Christmas carols are now playing nonstop as I spend my evenings putting up fur. I love their company on the long, dark, winter nights. I am thankful for such a rich catch. I’ve caught more fur, but never of this quality.

A week into the new year I have received no further messages, and no airplane has shown. Anticipating this possibility, I already had taken the steps to stash my entire outfit and furs in a large cache, built into the ground before the freeze, like a sturdy log fort. This isn’t my first rodeo, you know.

With food all but depleted, I put together a traveling kit with a large pack frame to hike out on snowshoes. I hit the trail west, crossing virgin snow. It will take some days, but if my dead reckoning is on course, I will arrive at a neighbor’s cabin in good shape.

Turns out to be quite a trip, another tale of its own.

* * *

Roland Welker runs his own wilderness guiding service, including hunting, fishing, trapping, gold panning, backpacking and cross country travel. Contact: Roland Welker, P.O. Box 24, Red Devil, AK 99656; (907) 447-3235; www.bigmedicinebooseway.com/temp.