Easter Sunday… fine spring weather in the northern panhandle is gracing the Chilkat Valley, and after a bout of home chores, I dig out the sleepy Surly Ogre from her months long nap for a kick up the Haines Highway to see what I can see. She snorts and growls, but soon is bucking wildly and fully resurrected. We spin down to Mountain Market for a cup of mud and then the highway is ours.
The sun is shining and it is a glorious day to be onboard the Ogre and spinning north. The high peaks of the Chilkat Range are spilling their sizable glaciers into magnificent sunlight, sending a deep chill down into me that strikes me every time I see it. I look to the north, into the mountains of British Columbia where friends are enjoying some spring backcountry skiing and I wish for them the same fine weather I am experiencing down here in the valley.
Coming into view at six mile of the Haines Highway is a small pond where two Swans float about grooming and obviously enjoying the beautiful day as well. Further past, the usual herd of Mountain Goats are clinging wildly to the flanks of Peak 3920, their white shapes ever so clear against the grey and rocky slopes they are suspended upon. I bet they too are happy that spring has finally arrived in Alaska.
It feels good to be on the Ogre again, sliding silently along while the beauty of the valley unfolds. The springtime is always a special time here; life is unfolding everywhere and the glaciers shine as bright as ever. The weather, such as days like this, seem to prevail. Not always of course, but often times the case.
At the 15 mile mark, I turn the beast around and we pedal home, stopping once more to speak with the Swans from earlier. At home later, I make some adjustment to the steed and vow to get aboard more often during this fine spring event.
A paragraph from the book I just can’t seem to actually finish… maybe that is the point; maybe it is not supposed to be finished…
“Just south of the lodge known as Bell II, I look through a clearing in the forest and see for the first time Canada’s great and glaciated Coast Range. Craggy peaks engulfed in ice and nary a road any where near them, I feel a washing aesthetic come over me, similar to seeing for the first time in many years the Canadian Rockies weeks earlier. I am coming home to a place I have never been, and a heartache for all things wild and free develops within, and a budding sense of realism penetrates all that this pedal north is becoming. Thoughts of my past life in Moab are becoming a distant memory, with visions of the North encompassing all of me and all I will become. This place, the Cassiar, her mighty rivers and expansive forest, begin to feel oddly familiar. There is a vague yet noticeable tinge of something ancient in these forests; something unexplainable that has catapult me into a womb of wilderness and animals. I see a Black Bear, then another, then another. The concepts of the modern world drifting from my heart; the destruction I feel I have left behind, the crying of a world gone mad, and the never ending forest are all I see now. In retrospect, I am quite certain that it was at this point my life changed forever. Never again could I be satisfied or feel safe in a world full of madness and decay. Here, my heart lost in a sea of timber and mountains, I see nothing but balance and I could never again return to what I had left behind. I was still a long way from Alaska, and if what I was experiencing here was only a precursor, I felt I might simply explode when I arrived in what the Athabascan’s call, “The Great Land”.”