THE KESUGI RIDGE EXPERIENCE

One of my favorite fast-packing places is the Kesugi Ridge Trail, in Denali State Park. It is about 200 miles southwest of Fairbanks, on the east side of the Parks highway, south of Cantwell, heading toward Talkeetna and the Matanuska-Susitna valleys.

It is a 27.3 mile trail that quickly ascends at either end, 1500 to 2500 feet above the Chulitna River valley. You therefore remain above tree-line (which is only at 2500 ft. msl) most of the time, in an open expansive tundra setting, with far-reaching views of the Alaska Range and Denali on the west side, and if you climb to the top of Kesugi Ridge, or go through the two bi-secting drainages of it, to the east the vast Talkeetna mountains. Both roadless and unpopulated.

A strange thing happened on 03 July, 2007 when I did a fast-pack there. That one did quite pan out as expected. Which is why I have no pictures from that trip. I've only told a few people about it, and in a somewhat edited, abbreviated form. So I felt it would be good to tell the whole story, exactly as it happened in my experience. I call it my near-death experience number 4 (NDE#4), as I have had five, in the past 19 years.

My first was the 2/28/1990 Mt. Hood alpine ski incident, whereby I flew off a ledge on a sheet-ice snow-day, hit a tree in mid-air, and ended up 40 ft. below in a grove of mountain hemlocks. To be found two hours later by some other skiers at the end of the day who decided to investigate after hearing a slight moaning sound. My only memory is waking up on the ski patrol backboard, then the long ambulance ride back to Portland, reconstructive surgery to pull out my dented face, involving metal plates around my left eye, etc..

Number two was a rafting incident on the Clark Fork river in the Alberton Gorge, near Missoula, MT five months later. A Univ. of MT outdoor program raft trip went awry when the novice rafters in my boat stopped paddling as we neared a huge standing wave, and we all were thrown into the 50 deg. F rapids for half an hour, before others could pull us out quite a ways downriver. I certainly would not be here were it not for the life jacket. As it was, we had no helmets, or dry suits, just shorts/t-shirts/sandals.

Number three was a motorcycle incident in Missoula in April, 1992, where I had to drop my Honda CB700SC Nighthawk and run, as a car driving in reverse almost over-ran me. It almost hit me on foot! A panicked visiting Chinese professor who sideswiped a car on the other side of the street jammed it in reverse, not thinking. Number four, you'll read about shortly.

Number five was 28 January, 2008, when my beautiful adopted sled dog Kiana was killed by a hit/run speeding large truck, when we were running on Chena Ridge Road, about two miles from the A.P.R. Research Centre. She got away from me briefly, when Mattie pulled me, and out into the traffic lane. The brown/beige mid 1990s extra-cab Ford 4WD truck must have been going 70+ mph, went right through her, killing her instantly. It brushed my shoulder, I had just gotten out of the way in time. The truck never slowed or stopped. It had to have seen us, I was wearing bright reflective red, and Kiana had alot of white on her. I had adopted Kiana from the Fairbanks pound in August, 2007. She had no name, was injured, and very aggressive with other dogs when I found her. But in a few months of focused attention, she became a sweet and loyal companion.

So, back to my 2007 Kesugi Ridge fast-pack. I did get some nice pictures on the Kesugi Ridge trail when I first hiked there in August 2006, on the way to run my annual Whitehorse, Yukon marathon. I drove there with my two amazing canid companions, at the time, to do just an easy 3-day/2 night pack trip, since I was in the tapering mode of my marathon training, the week before the run.

This was Nimbus, a kind and gentle soul living in the body of a Wolf/Mackenzie River Husky mix. When I adopted him from the Fairbanks pound in May, 2006, he was wary and exceedingly scared of men. He had been physically abused, it was clear. All that was said was that he had been turned in for "not working out" as a sled dog. He wouldn't eat food from my hand unless I threw it to him, and then looked away, for the first few weeks. It took about two months to fully domesticate and bond with him. But when we did, he brought great joy to me and my other, older sled dog, Frost, a classic Alaskan racing husky, a veteran of seven years on a recreational team, many of which were as the lead. She sometimes ran over 100 miles a day at 12 mph along the frozen rivers and trails.

Nimbus was amazingly timid and gentle. He loved to run, and with his amazing size, presence, and plume of a tail, was a breathtaking sight. When we ran, even on the warmest of days, up to 20 miles, he never would stop for water! I tried to encourage him, but he just didn't want to! When smaller dogs would rush us from driveways on our neighborhood runs, he always would run away, instead of shredding them! He never barked in or around the house, he just squeaked when he wanted something. I never had to worry about him harming anything. And Frost really liked him.

They both really loved that trip, Nimbus even had to howl a few times to show his approval.

Because it was such a beautiful place. The first day of that trip, we had to hike in the rain to set up camp at the base of Indian Mountain, about five steep, switchbacked miles up from the Little Coal Creek trailhead, the northern end of the Ridge trail. But the next morning, opening the tent, Denali came into view as skies cleared.

We spent the day hiking about 8 miles south from camp, then up and around different parts of the ridge, enjoying the open tundra expanse and sweeping views, before going back to our camp. No bear worries up high either, the salmon were running down on the lower streams and rivers, keeping them happy down there.

After the previous cold, wet day, relaxing in the warm early August sun was a treat. That area south of the crest of the Alaska Range (which is about 40 miles north) is very wet, frontal systems from the Gulf of Alaska are not blocked much as they push inland and ascend there, squeezing out often days of rain and fog in late summer and early fall.

After our three days of therapy there, we drove to Whitehorse, via Valdez, as none of us had ever been there. That was quite beautiful.

It was Nimbus' last multi-day wilderness outing. He died at the age of three in November, 2006, in a freak accident. He at least had six good months in his short life, and brought great happiness to us overall, in spite of some occasionally difficult moments.

Frost succumbed to cancer in May, 2007, at the age of 12, after a month-long fight. She was a true, loyal, and devoted companion for the three years after I adopted her at the age of nine. With a quiet, poised, and timid presence, which belied her great athleticism.

For the first time in many years, I was dogless in the spring and summer of 2007, before adopting Kiana. It was strange, and I knew that couldn't last, though it was easier, just being able to take off and go anwhere, at any time, with no worries.

In late June of 2007, I was dispatched to forecast weather on the Caribou Hills fire, on the Kenai Peninsula, south of Anchorage. Inland from the little town of Ninilchik, the fire burned 55,300 acres and a few houses, but mostly on the first three days after it's start, by a man sharpening tools outside his cabin. By the time I got there 8 days later, the weather had turned cool and cloudy, and the fire behavior was low, and suppression was quick. But I had ten beautiful days there, the suppression team worked out of the Ninilchik Jr./Sr. High School, on the bluff above Cook inlet. This was our view out the back, looking toward Mt. Redoubt. I sure didn't mind camping out on top of that bluff, falling asleep to the sound of the waves 100 ft. below. And late evening treasure-combing on the beach.

But I had wanted to do one my fast-packs on the Kesugi Ridge trail that summer, it was going to be right on my way home, as I headed back from the fire, perfect. I would hike/run the 27.3 miles of trail in 6-7 hours I reckoned, then ride my mountain bike, stashed earlier at Byer's Lake, the southern trail terminus, back to my car at the Little Coal Creek trailhead. About seventeen miles. Nothing I wasn't used to, or really expected to be out of ordinary experience.

I checked the weather the last full day I was at Ninilchik, July 1st, before packing up my gear that night for the drive home early the next day. The numerical forecast models all indicated that the surface thermal low, the axis of greatest instability, where thunderstorms tend to form, would be north of the crest of the Alaska Range, over the interior, which is most common in summer.

When I got to the Little Coal Creek trailhead at 1030 am on the morning of 03 July, 2007, it was foggy and sprinkling, and I decided to wait and see if it would dry out and clear up. By noon the fog was lifting, and I decided to get on my way. I was wearing shorts, and a long polypro top, that was it, because it was about 50 degrees. I didn't have a whole lot of food to bring, one lunch meal and two cliff bars, and I had another stashed in my bike bag, at Byers Lake, for the two hour ride back. I also had just two 1/2 litre bottles of water and a Rock Star energy drink (I don't really like those, but occasionally will have one only on a long day's outing, running/hiking, biking, or skiing). I was in my running shoes, with my metal trekking poles for stability. My pack only weighed then about 14-15 lbs. At the last minute, I threw my best wind/water proof Mountain Hardwear shell in my pack, a very wise decision. I really thought I could do more running than walking, so that I could do the trail in 6-7 hours, and two hours on the bike, making for a 8-9 hour day.

The first four miles up from Little Coal Creek are steep and switchbacked, so I walked those, into the fog. When I got up to where the trail tops out and starts to parallel the ridge on it's southwesterly course to Byers Lake, the fog lifted into a low stratus deck, and I could see more. I thought, great, with low stratus, the atmosphere will be stable, shouldn't run into any heavy weather. And, the first 13 miles or so, it just stayed cloudy, with the ceiling gradually lifting. I ran a little, but there were alot of rocky sections, so I ended mostly just walking at a brisk pace. I had lunch about 4 hours in, around mile 13.

There are two drainages slicing the ridge you have to walk down and up through, the second one is steeper and has very tall grass and saplings all around. Prime bear country, and you could not see far ahead of you. So I made alot of noise there. By the time I came back up onto the tundra from the second drainage, the sky behind me was very dark, and I heard rumbles of thunder. I was 16 miles in, going back was not an option, the storms movement was to the south, toward me. In fact, the sky was very dark, with a slight greenish tinge. That was very alarming, as that means deep convection, with hail, and lots of lightning.

I started to get a little panicked, as there is no shelter above tree-line. My options were to go down the ridge, and then bushwack through the thick spruce/alder forest to the Parks Highway, or keep going. I kept going. At mile 18, by the side of one of the many tiny lakes around the trail, I ran into a woman I used to know when I was in the Chena Goldstream Fire/Rescue a few years before, she was a medic, while I was a firefighter/medic. Her name was Heike, she is German. At this point it was raining lightly, the wind was picking up, and thunder was fairly frequent.

I stopped to chat with her. She had rigged up a little tarp shelter with some rocks and line, and was getting in to her sleeping bag, to get out of the weather. She was on a 3-day hike of the trail. When I told her my plans, her response was "you're crazy". Because the weather was really closing in now, the lightning was much more frequent. I slammed down my Rock Star energy drink and the last Cliff Bar. She didn't have room for me in her shelter, and I just wanted to keep going anyway. I didn't see Heike again for many months. When we finally met up, she said she was terrified she'd find my dead body on the trail the next day!

About a half-hour after leaving her, the storm closed in, with heavy rain, small hail, and a strong tail wind, maybe 40 mph. But the worst was the frequent lightning, all around and above. I saw many ground strikes within a mile. I thought of ditching my metal poles, but I needed those for stability, so as not to roll my ankle in my short running shoes, on the rough, rocky trail. At this point, my adrenaline kicked in. I had my shell on, hood down, so my head and torso were warm and dry, but my hands and legs were freezing, it was probably about 40F. I was in full panic mode. Lightning strikes were occurring all around me, so I just kept moving as fast as I could. I didn't run though, as it was quite rocky, and I didn't want to stumble and injure myself.

After about 30 minutes of this, probably around mile 19-20, the lightning was essentially continuous, with ground strikes very nearby. You can see in the above pictures, how exposed it is. Rain and small hail were still heavy, and my shell, shorts, legs, and hands were drenched. This is where something happened, which I'm still trying to get a grasp of.

I decided I was going to die. I knew it. There was nothing I could do. I'll never forget that feeling of release though, I just let go, and instantly I was transformed, I lost the panic feeling. I think I was still moving, but I don't remember. All I remember after this was communicating with my maternal Grandmother who passed away in 1996, and with my Aunt Rita, who was a great influence on me as a child. She passed away in 2002. I also saw my canid companions Coyote, Nahanni, Nimbus, and Frost, who had passed away between 2003 and the previous May. It felt like I was in a different place, and I don't know how much time passed, or if I was still moving. Many people who have had near-death experiences have reported being in a tunnel, heading toward a bright light, or something along those lines. I do seem to remember feeling and seeing like I was moving toward some light, and I could sense the presence of my ancestors and dogs there waiting for me. And I told them I was coming over. I lost all sense of what was going on in the physical world.

I think about an hour later, I just came to, for lack of a better description. That's when I can remember what was happening on the trail again. The lightning was fading out, but it was still raining and windy. My legs and hands were freezing, I was hungry, and thirsty, as I didn't bring enough water, but I was able to continue.

I finally reached the section of trail that drops down to Byer's Lake about 8 hours in, at mile 24. I had never been on this section. What I didn't realize is that it had been cut up a cliff face, essentially, so was very steep and rocky, with hazardous drop-offs. Since the rocks were wet and slippery, it took me 90 minutes to descend that face, as I had to take a step, stop, test the footing, take a step, etc.. The rain let up briefly the last two miles through the woods to Byers Lake. But when I got back to my bike, in the parking lot, 10 hours after my start, tired, hungry, thirsty, and slightly manic from the panic and strange experience, the rain started up again, harder than ever! At this point, I actually asked a couple people in the campground if I could get a ride back to my car, since I was tired, cold, sore from the adrenaline/strike, and hungry/thirsty. They turned me down, even after I offered to pay! I think they were loaded, there was lots of beer around. So, I got on the bike, and headed up the Parks Highway, in the rain. I did have a cliff bar in the bike bag, so I wolfed that down, but had no water to go with it.

The ride back 17 miles to my car took two hours. Level the first 8 or so, three uphill miles, then some downhill, and finally uphill the last couple to the Little Coal Creek trailhead. The rain finally stopped about ten miles in on my ride, which lifted my spirits a little. When I finally reached my car at 1230 am, I was pretty tired, but very sore, hungry, and thirsty. I changed into dry clothes, drank about a gallon of water, and loaded up for the four hour drive home.

When I started my drive back, my hands were shaking, and it finally sank in, I was alive and had made it. But in very bad shape. I had deep gashes on both of my hips from my pack. In my panic state, I just didn't take notice that was happening, and adjust the straps. Those took weeks to heal, and my clothes stuck to them once, which was very painful. My knees were very sore from the cliff face descent, and I think the adrenaline must have done something, as my whole body felt off, sore in a way, which I had never felt before. It seems clear now, in retrospect, that I was struck by lightning, either a direct hit, or charge from a very nearby strike. I read an article about lightning safety recently by the NOLS (National Outdoor Leadership School), written by medical experts and physicists. Often times people who are struck will not have burns, especially if they are wet. I was drenched from the heavy rain at the time.

I stopped at a little pizza joint near Denali NP, which was still open, all they could give me was a sandwich, the kitchen was closed. But it was the best one I've ever had. I also had a beer, to calm my shaking hands. I told the people there my story, and they were interested, and congratulated me for making it. The rest of the way back home, as my favorite Thievery Corporation CDs were playing, I spent wondering, what had happened? I got home at 400 am, and fell right into bed, getting up at 1 pm. I had to work at 3pm that day, the 4th of July.

I really do feel as though I had crossed-over, into the "Mundo Otro" (other World), the place we end up when we let go our physical body, or at night, in our dreams. So, I have no fear of death, not that I am looking forward to it either though! It also made me realize how fortunate I am, to live in a place like Alaska, with an interesting career, and friends and family that I deeply care about. And that I should do something to make a difference in this World. Which gradually led to my decision to start the A.P.R., and provide information which we hope will make a difference to help bring about a more sane, just, and sustainable society, in this country, and the World at large. To also show that there are many progressive, caring, globally-oriented people in Alaska, not just Sarah and Todd Palins! There's alot of work to be done!

I didn't feel right for several months after this incident, my knees were sore for weeks, my running was off, I had to quit our Sept. Equinox marathon at mile 22 from hip pain. I visited an accupuncturist, Paula Kunkle, who is very well thought-of in the local holistic health community, and very hard to get in to see. This was about three days after the experience. I told her what happened. She said I was "not all there". That part of me had actually left, to the Next World, and that she needed to ground me, and bring that back. Which involved several sessions of needling :), which I think did help.

Finally, I want to leave you with this image.

It is the daily lightning ground-strike accumulation from 03 July, 2007. It turned out to be the heaviest day of the year! And, well south of where the models forecast, south of the crest of the Alaska range. Which is highly unusual. Note the strikes, even over Denali, that is very unusual. The vast expanse of ice and snow on and well around it usually serves to keep the atmosphere more stable in that vicinity, since it is colder at the surface there.

Since I hadn't planned to do this outing when I had left for the Caribou Hills fire, two weeks before, I didn't have as much gear with me. Now, when I do a summer fast-pack, I always bring my bivvy sack for emergency shelter (a small tent-like affair that fits just a sleeping bag and pad with a little headroom), +15F down sleeping bag (only weighs 1.8 lbs), hat, gloves, and pants, if I will be in shorts. And more food/water. If I think there could be thunderstorms, I wait for another day. Cheers.