By Jess McGlothlin
The hike in was a typical tundra hike. Thick, damp moss layered the uneven terrain in a carpet that threatened to eat your boots with every step. Low-lying areas presented a morass of mud that could be anywhere from a few inches to a meter deep. If we were lucky, we could find bear trails; slightly more worn areas dotted with piles of crowberry-laden bear sign and the occasional wolf print. Along with one very random—very fresh—half-eaten snowshoe hare carcass placed tidily in the middle of the trail.
The descent to the river was much the same; pushing our way through dense willows while sing-songing “Hey bear” in the hopes we’d spook out anything lurking before it spooked us. (Always to the rhythm of Day-O, The Banana Song—the Harry Belafonte version, for novelty’s sake.) A long slide down a screen slope into a jungle of brush, a bushwhack to the river, and then we were there.
The river’s not named on a map. Locals call it Headwaters which, I supposed as we swat at clouds of mosquitoes and white socks as we yanked off our packs to pull out our rods, is as good a name as any. We’d spent the last several days moving lumber, camp cooking, and helping build a fishing lodge in a remote location in Katmai National Park. Today was a day of fishing, a day of break. Our day of rest, I suppose, if a day of rest meant an eight-mile hike across tundra and slick riverbed.
It’s all relative these days.
Divide & Conquer
Zach had hiked in his pack raft and was swiftly prepping for what would be, as far as we knew, a first descent of a canyon section of this river. Dubbed “Bob Vila” in camp for his building know-how and his resemblance to the famed TV show host, Zach’s plan was to head downriver, floating until he got through the lower section, and then hike back to camp. Myself, Danish angler Sarah, and Alaska angler Skylar would hike upstream, seeing how far the sockeye spawning run was active and scouting out new water for the lodge to fish once it was built and open.
Divide and conquer. One thing we knew, neither group would be alone during our days. Bears run rampant in this part of Alaska, and every day we’d see more of them than there were of us. For a Montana girl who mind screamed “problem” every time I saw a bear, it was an adjustment. Alaska bears weren’t Montana bears. And while I didn’t trust them, I was happy to see they appeared much more interested in the salmon than in us.
Waders on, rods rigged, and (maybe) a few bugs successfully squashed, it was time to part ways. We farewelled Zach as he pushed the pack raft into the current, kicking aside cherry-red sockeye as he headed off into the great unknown. He was focused on the current and his footing.
Welcome to the Jungle
We, however, were focused on the big, lumbering bear which had suddenly popped out into the river just below.
“Zach!” He didn’t hear us over the river. “Zach! Bear!”
He grinned over his shoulder at us, suspecting a joke. Zach’s traveled solo in many dodgy places around the world, and once drove a $900 1994 GMC Safari van from Missoula to southern Chile. Zach knows how to handle himself. Zach also knows we all talk a lot of shit in camp.
Zach did not believe there was a bear.
He finally turned his head to see the big momma trucking along up the bank, uncaring of the man and the raft and the three women holding fishing rods in her path. A quick retreat was made back across the current to give the bear space, and she just kept on cruising along.
It was a fitting “welcome to the jungle” moment, Alaska style.
Katmai Traffic Jams
Eventually she disappeared back into the brush with eerily quiet movements. We waved goodbye to Zach once more and started walking upstream against the current, fishing our way up to our scouting target several miles upsteam. One Katmai traffic jam had been averted, but there were several recurrent episodes—a couple with multiple bears—throughout the day as we caught our bounty of Arctic grayling and rainbow trout.
Making it back to camp before darkness during an Alaskan summer is a relative thing, but we made it back before 2200, in time to heat up some leftovers for a tired supper in the little cook shack. Zach appeared an hour later with tales of more bears, wild canyon water, and a boggy walk home. We fixed him a plate while trading map mark-ups and scouting reports. A tundra AAR, by all accounts.
Then it was time to collapse into our cots and rest up for another day of moving lumber in Hector, the little workhorse Helio Courier—the last one ever built in 1974—and framing out walls. The bears would wait, but the oncoming winter wouldn’t.
