Family is precious to me, but sometimes I have to ditch them.
To be fair, I ditched my family this weekend in order to spend time with my Dad. So, really, I just exchanged family members. And that's totally allowable.
I drove the four dang hours to Soldotna on Friday to pay my dear ol' Dad a visit while he's working on a job down there. We have a really cool father-daughter relationship, which I totally cherish. We are so much alike: slightly anti-social (yet surprisingly personable), love animals and the outdoors, incredibly determined when we want to be, naturally stick-thin but love health food anyway, and inclined to go on solo-adventures at the drop of a hat. We understand each other.
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| Love my Dad! (eatin' at Veronica's Coffee House in Kenai) |
Since my Dad was working during the day, I decided to take an afternoon adventure by myself. After a little research I discovered a short trail with great reviews that seemed just the ticket. I departed from a FAB-U-LOUS lunch with him at
Veronica's Coffee House in Kenai, and headed north to Skilak Lake Rd. (which is a huge loop, in case you didn't know). My destination was Hidden Creek Trail at the northern end of the loop, almost 35 miles out of Soldotna. The trailhead is almost 5 miles up the dirt road, but easy to find. I was pumped to get walking. Then, reality set in. Not two feet into the 1.8 mile trail, and I beheld a HUGE pile of scantily digested berries: BEAR SCAT! I just stood there, staring at it, asking myself how important that little adventure was to me. I wondered if that would be the last hike I ever took. Was I really brave enough to face a bear and not totally freak out? Fortunately, I wasn't completely unprepared.
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| Ho boy! Do you know what that is?! |
Earlier that morning, when I made a quick stop at the Raven Tobacco Shop to get some pipe tobacco for my husband, I confirmed that bears would definitely be in the area and I should watch out. The hairs on the back of my neck tingled. I wasn't used to hiking in areas that were so heavily populated by bears, so I made a visit to the Soldotna Outdoorsmen's Warehouse and purchased a bear bell (don't call it a dinner bell, please), a can of bear spray, and a stout multi-tool with a knife (mostly because I've been hankering for one for quite a while). Short of having a gun in my pocket, I felt a bit more ready to face whatever lumbered across my path, though I desperately hoped nothing would.
Back at the trail, I debated with myself in the 20 feet from the car to the trailhead, whether I really wanted to have that obnoxious dinging bear bell announcing my presence at every step. It seemed so flashy and touristy. I preferred to walk quietly when I hiked. But after seeing the giant mess of bear leavings, I decided that I mostly preferred to not get eaten. So, I released the bell, put the bear spray in my water bottle pocket for easy access, and went dingling down the path toward the unknown.
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| Yummy low-bush cranberries, pre-bear-digestion. |
Within less than 100 feet, I came upon another series of bear scat piles (FYI, bears don't
stop to poop). It was then that I realized the seriousness of my situation. It was no fluke. That was as much a bear trail as it was a people trail. In fact, there was so much bear scat on the path that I could hardly afford to look up and scan the woods for fear of absent-mindedly stepping in a pile of intestinally-processed berries. The relative freshness of some piles gave me pause, more than once. My searched my primal brain for logic, hoping to tease out some hunter-gatherer survival skills. I even held my hand over one of the piles, trying to feel for heat. In the end, that part of my brain (maybe it's in yours, too) which opts to find an iffy situation
amusing, rather than
daunting, won out. I began comparing the qualities of the scat based on color, texture, age, and arrangement. I documented some here for your viewing pleasure.
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| Some bear got into the Kool-aid. |
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| Interesting choice of color and arrangement. |
Hidden Creek Trail was shaped like a lollipop. The first mile of the trail was like the stick; it was the way in and the way out. The last 0.8 miles of the trail was the round candy loop that just barely touched the end of Skilak Lake at its furthest edge. My plan was to take the western (to the right) part of the loop first, explore the beaches of the lake, and then continue around the eastern part of the loop to connect back to the stick of the lollipop and the safety of my car. It made me feel better to have a plan.
The trail environment changed regularly from birch forest with golden leaves fluttering to the ground, to an open area of burned ghost trees, to a marshy wetland with stunted spruce and alder. The variation enhanced the enjoyment of the walk and distracted me slightly from my bear worries. Despite the three cars parked next to mine at the trailhead, I only saw one person that afternoon. He was a gray-haired, wiry fella with two armloads of long, curly, bleached driftwood sticks headed out. He was breathing heavily from the weight of his treasures and his quick pace. We exchanged pleasantries, but before he got out of earshot I asked him if he saw any wildlife (a.k.a. big scary grizzlies hungry for a skinny girl lunch). He knew exactly what I meant. "No," he said, "but there are bear tracks all along the lake." And with a little chuckle he disappeared around the bend.
The middle-portion of the trail that burned in the 1991 Pothole Lake forest fire provided relief to my nerves with its vastly more open views. I relaxed my vigilant scanning of the forest and took in the extent of the 8,700 acre blaze. I breathed more easily and enjoyed the easy hiking. Soon, I reached the shores of Skilak Lake, the true treasure of my hike.
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| Driftwood galore on the shores of Skilak Lake. |
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| Be brave, I told myself. |
My first glimpses of the lake were perfect vignettes framed through the golden-leafed trees. Hiking reviews warned of vicious winds on the lake, but I found it perfectly calm. I emerged onto the smooth-rock beach and witnessed a scene worth every fearful step of the trail. Except for a boat in the very far distance, I was alone in the landscape and it was a beautiful thing. I found myself on the eastern tip of Skilak Lake, stretching 15 miles below me and about 2 miles across, near the effluence of Hidden Creek. I marveled at the tons of bleach-white driftwood trees rimming the upper portion of the gunmetal gray beach. The mountains of Kenai National Wildlife Refuge stood sentinel over the scene wearing snowy caps and yellow-flecked socks. It was a paradise.
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| The mouth of Hidden Creek was a mecca for birds (on the far right shore). |
But the wiry driftwood-picker I had passed on the trail was absolutely right: there were bear tracks everywhere! The first track I encountered was so big that I froze. Then I started scanning the beach in both directions for movement. I consoled myself with assurances that I could see anything coming from quite a distance and then forced myself to explore. Again, my curiosity and amusement over the number of bears signs kicked in and diverted my panic. It's funny how a person can become comfortable with threat of danger as long as the danger itself does not materialize. Have you experienced this?
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| My Dad says Grizzlies leave claw marks, but black bears don't. |
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| Yep, that's a big one. |
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| If Dad's right, then this be a black bear. |
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| Mystery track: maybe a wolverine? Any guesses? |
For over an hour I strolled the beach photographing swans in the slough, claiming two twisty driftwood sticks and about 3 lbs. of smooth beach stones, and puffing on my pipe with a bit of blackberry cavendish tobacco. It crossed my mind that producing a sweet-smelling smoke might not be the wisest choice in bear country, but I couldn't resist going all-out-woods-woman on my little adventure. I used my pipe maybe only three or four times this year, so I hope you'll forgive the indulgence in such a splendid setting.
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| Humor me, I only do this on rare occasions. It seemed appropriate. |
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| A silly selfie that took more tries than I care to divulge. |
It was after 4 o'clock when I rejoined the trail loop to head back. I wasn't sure I was on the trail at first, which was much narrower and densely forested by scraggly black spruce on either side. It gave me the creeps so bad that I chose to carry the bear spray in my hand, finger on the safety trigger, through that portion. I walked quickly, racing the sun that dropped lower on the horizon by the minute. My fun was over and I just wanted to get back to my car in one piece. I put extra bounce and wiggle into my steps to increase the dingling of the bear bell. Danger felt more imminent on this eastern part of the loop closest to the creek. Bears are more active at dawn and dusk, right? I tromped up the trail so vigorously that I began to sweat and had to peel off all but my base layer. Gratefulness is an understatement for what I felt when I reached the burned-out open area and rejoined the familiar lollipop stick portion. I speed-walked the rest of the way back, never once glimpsing a real, live bear. No regrets there!
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| Perfect camouflage for a bear? I thought so, too. |
Satisfaction is what I felt. A sense of achievement. I was afraid, but I overcame it (with a responsible amount of preparation, too). I gave myself a gold-star for courage and solo-adventuring as I threw my gear into the back of my little hatchback and hurried back to meet my Dad for dinner. When he saw me, he said my cheeks were rosy and I was glowing. We looked at my pictures together and I felt pretty glow-y on the inside, too. I felt vibrantly alive, not just because of the hike, but because I'd ditched my routine at home, stepped out of my comfort zone, lived to tell the tale, and
had someone special to share it with afterward. That is the kind of stuff I live for.
