The Leffingwell Fork
Fording the Aichilik
The first order of business the next morning- morning relating only to the time we had breakfast and started moving, not hours on the clock- was to ford the Aichilik. From there we would ascend the saddle crossing over the range to the Leffingwell Fork.
Though we had been hiking on the Aichilik for the past two days, we had not scouted the eastern channel, which seemed to be primary. The north wind still blew cold, and the idea of ending up submerged in an Arctic river, or even temporarily soaked, did not sound appealing.
Peter and I put on our Chacos, and Mark kept on gaiters. We walked across the numerous tertiary channels to reach the main channel on the east. Mark walked ahead, scouting crossings. The view of the water from the other side of the river had been deceptive; the crossing was shallow, only up to our mid-calves, and we walked easily through the clear icy water. A wolf print on the other side of the river was imprinted in the sand.
Looking down on the Aichilik from the upper bank
Tundra walking from the river was dry and easy. We ascended a hundred feet up a very steep bank, and from there it leveled out. Caribou trails continued to cross the sides of the mountains here, left from tens of thousands crossing this saddle. Though there were no animals in view it was as though we could see them, hear them, running across this tundra just days before. As we enjoyed the shelter from the wind from the ridge to our north, the mosquitoes set in, never missing a moment’s opportunity. The saddle rose gently after the steep bank, and from its top descended as gently to the Leffenwell Fork. The valley of the Leffenwell opened on the descent, another gentle, approachable valley, a friendly, small river and high peaks to the south toward the Continental divide seeming to hold back the dark clouds. We camped that night on the banks of the Leffingwell Fork with the low roil of a rock garden below us, the mezzo gurgling of the rocks just outside camp, and the soprano of occasional splashes over large rocks upstream.
Back out of the mountains, we donned jackets and gloves to protect from the strong north wind. Our kitchen- where we kept all of our gear other than sleeping gear- was on a rocky beach just off a small channel of the river, and for the first time we had the company of harlequin ducks flying and floating by us, though keeping a fair distance.
Peter and Mark dig into the powdered eggs
By this stage in the trip we had progressed to full-on food fantasies. it is unclear in the annals of outdoor adventures whether this is brought on by some chemical in the freeze dried food or lack of fresh fruit and vegetables; perhaps it is the beginnings of scurvy. Taking a bite of Mountain House lasagne, I said “I’m going straight for the veggie pizza at Panorama,” referring to the pizza place in Carlo Creek just south of the cabin.
“I just want a huge salad,” Mark said. I felt then somewhat guilty for my unhealthy choice. “I’ll go for a pizza too,” Peter said. “Maybe even a good hamburger.” “With cheese,” I offered.
“Or a cinnamon roll from the Hi Spot,” Peter mused.
It is an interesting game we play in the wilderness with these ideas which end up as torture, extreme delayed gratification. Both of the guys were intereste in more food in general though.
“How many extra meals did we bring?” Peter asked.
“Three extra entrees,” I said. “But we should be careful in case weather comes in.”
“I have powdered eggs,” Mark said. “Should we break into those? We could do an extra entree tomorrow night, and we’ll still have extra. I think we’re losing weight.”
The guys had a second course of eggs that night. I determined I would have to be very hungry indeed to succumb to powdered eggs. But realizing that I hadn’t factored in the pre-natal calcium requirements into the food for the trip, raided the Tums in the first aid kit.
Peter, Shannon and Mark
We followed the river north the next day heading to the confluence of the Aichilik. Most of the hiking crossed a large open plateau, perfectly representative of the impossibility of judging distance in the Arctic. With the lack of “middle ground”, the close details and far horizons are all one has to sense their place in the landscape. The Arctic lends itself to dreaming and to thinking, but not to spatial orientation. It is similar perhaps to desert that way, and as environmental historian Paul Shepard points out, is is frequently these places that are sought out by mystics across cultures and centuries.
Geological explanation for the formation is that the Leffingwell ridge, by Catherine Hanks at UAF, is that it is the northern flank of a large east north-east trending that forms the range front of the Brooks Range. She explains (perhaps this is more meaningful to someone other than myself who is not a scientist) that “pre-Mississipian rocks of the Franklinian sequence form the core of the anti-clinorium, with Mississipian through Triassic rocks of the Elesmerian sequence forming the north and south limbs.” There is much more to it of course, but that seems to be the jist.
Spiritual and geological vectors lead us to the same truth. The inviting open plateau challenged us with tussocks, and perceived distance. But it was a short day to the confluence nonetheless, where we found a flat spot of tundra for tents and set up our kitchen on the river bed.
Camp
In spite of the wind, birds fought the breeze, and kept us company through the evening and the next morning. I wandered surreptitiously, I thought, looking for nests, with no luck. While sitting with our Backpackers Pantry (which we much preferred to Mountain House) dinner, though, we heard a commotion. Two birds which from camp looked like sandpipers, chased a ground squirrel, flying right above it on the tundra, making a racket, ostensibly driving it away from their nest. The squirrel was effectively deterred- it kept a course away from the furious birds.
We settled in for the night more comfortable and less imposing, it seemed, than the ground squirrel.
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