Kigluaik Traverse

Thu Aug 29 2024 17:00:00 GMT-0700 (Pacific Daylight Time)

Probably the first crossing of the Kigluaik Range

This was originally published in the Descent zine volume 29 out of the Alaska Alpine Club, but I didn't like the way they edited my photos so I'm posting it here as well.

“Now hold da phone! Are you tellin’ me. . . are you tellin’ me that you got some knee butter?”

Ben gives a toothy grin as his wide eyes watch Brayden pulling out some ibuprofen from the bottom of his pack. Ben has been nursing a twisted knee since the second day of their trek. It’s day four now, his knee has only gotten worse, and the pills are being traded like salt on the silk road. Ben swallows one with a gulp of fresh mountain air, and with his knee buttered up, the three comrades are back to walking. The sun warms the peaks and valleys as the travelers pass. Tundra turns to tussocks. Bog wading becomes bushwhacking. It’s a beautiful quiet day in the mountains that don’t exist. They bleed their lifewaters into the valleys below, and three travelers are the only ones there to hear the quiet whispers of life in a landscape that has slipped between the folds of maps.

Being smaller than the other ranges, even some seasoned Alaskan climbers are unaware that any mountains lie just outside of Nome. The Kigluaik range. Its river valleys are thick with willow and alder, and home to bear, moose, caribou and musk ox. Willows and alders merge with tussock filled bogs and blueberry patches. The mountains rise up out of this green bedding. Colored tundra lichens paint their sides, clinging to all but the highest elevations where rocky spires and tors jut into the sky. The forgotten realm is magical even on the worst days, and luckily those days were behind them now.

Our three intrepid heroes had set out with a line on a map, two spoons, and three pounds of bacon. The one who drew the line: Benjamin Cross. The one who forgot his spoon: Brayden Bahnke. The one with the bacon: Devon Martin. To their knowledge, the Kigluaik range had yet to be linked into one continuous traverse. Ben’s dad dropped them off at mile marker 50 on the eastern side of the range as a misty drizzle poured down on them. Ahead lie 55 miles of dreams and question marks which promised an adventure. Three steps off the road and Devon’s old battered trail runners were already soaked. With a chuckle, he followed Ben and Brayden as they set off into the mist.

There's not much to say about the first two days. Clouds hung low and the wind screamed as a fall storm went through the last throes of life. The opaque mist resulted in excellent views of the rocks below their feet. The heavy wind worked hard to force the mist through their rain gear like sand through a sieve. As they made slow progress over the wet, lichen-covered rocks time passed. For two days they walked with nothing to see but the laces on their shoes and the maps in their hands. The water in the air permeated them to their bones and the wind created symphonies of rustling gear and howling rocks. After many sloshy steps, two of the hikers descended below the clouds into Gold Run valley, thoughts of a feast from their food-cache just ahead drove them on. The other hobbled out slowly behind them, having heroically taken an arrow to the knee to defend his comrades from rock goblins on the third mountain pass. Soggy and steamy, they crawled into their tent. Hope was at a low point that night, and dark thoughts swirled in their heads. They went to sleep praying for good weather in the days ahead.

The sun heard their prayers, but decided to sleep in the next morning before making an appearance. Once it lazily dragged itself out of the cozy clouds, the mountains shone in grandeur as the travelers – two walking, one hobbling – made their way through the heart of the Kigluaiks. Mt. Osborn loomed over them, its snowy peak piercing the clouds. Before them spread Windy Creek, winding and weaving through lush thickets of alder. At high noon, a strange sight appeared before them: a beautiful boulder which whispered tales of ancient times. The travelers were compelled to climb this proud boulder, finding a fountain of crystal-clear ambrosia to quench their thirst at its airy peak. Though this place was beautiful, they could not stay forever. Continuing on, they set up their tent next to an alpine lake so still and crystal clear that the reflections on its surface seemed to be a portal to the heavens. During this day’s dreamwalk, tundra spirits gave Brayden a stick spoon, and at the end of the day the three comrades feasted on bacon and buttery pasta and smiled and laughed and spoke of the past and the present and the future. The merry night passed into day, and the sun rose once again.

“NEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRR!”

Screamed the cherry red helicopter as it zipped overhead. A reminder that civilization did indeed exist. A comforting thought, as a warm bath sounded quite nice at the moment, but it was tinged with a hint of sadness. This helicopter was from a prospective mine which may build a road through this beautiful countryside. This was a major prompting for our heroes to embark on this journey. It was likely that this would be the last chance for anyone to experience what the Kigluaik range has been for so long: an ancient untouched beauty that sees less people in a decade than a supermarket sees on a Saturday afternoon. The duality of development weighed on their minds. On one hand, the road would take a sense of magic away from the land. On the other, it would bring easier access for backcountry adventure and an opportunity for economic growth. Yet at once the three travelers were happily trouncing over delicate mosses and ripping up lichen to use as toilet paper – philosophical contradictions which are far too complex for a trip report that says “neeerrr” at any point in it.

The travelers turned their eyes back to the task at hand. They were worn and weary, but there were only a few miles left. They moved swiftly, alternating between waves of inspiration and gritty determination. The mountain passes were tough, and the rock goblins were vicious. One threw a spear at Devon’s foot, destroying one of his trusty trail runners, but this would not stop him. They battled through more brush, splashed through more rivers, waddled through more bogs, and clambered over more passes. Another night came and went, and soon the travelers looked down on a different dirt road at a different mile marker 50 where Brayden’s mom patiently waited, ready to bring these stinky mountain men back to civilization. Their journey completed, they rode away from the mountains that don’t exist. Three pounds of bacon was eaten, a stick was found, and a line on a map had changed. The three travelers had drawn the line onto paper with the effervescent ink of dreams and questions and mapping software. Now it was etched into their memories with the crude chisel of exploration and discovery and sore feet. They don’t really care if they were the first to cross these mountains or not. They don’t really care if some skinny Euro comes and runs their 55 mile line in under 24 hours.

We care that we did what we set out to do and had a lot of fun doing it.