Chilkoot Trail Alpine Valley

A sign sticking out of the snow warns us not to stop as we side slope down from the pass. It’s late morning in early June and the sun is just starting to shine on the west-facing slope above us. The lingering snow is soft and, as the sign warns, avalanche danger will increase as the snow weakens under the afternoon sun. But the view down onto the alpine valley a few hundred feet below is breathtaking, and conveniently my hiking boot comes untied. Taking off my heavy backpack I might as well have a drink, soak up the view, and take a few photographs. It’s still early in the day. That snow above is firm enough.

We’re heading north on a four day hike along the Chilkoot Trail. Starting at sea level, the first two days were spent slowly gaining elevation in deep forest. This morning the trail shot us up quickly into the mountains and over the high point of the trail, Chilkoot Pass. At the pass we have crossed an international border, and after two days of hiking under cloud and rain we’ve also crossed a climatic border. South of the pass is Southeast Alaska which has a climate influenced by warm ocean air running into tall mountains where the moisture condenses into cloud. We experienced these clouds first hand as we ascended the steep boulder field to the pass. With clouds whipping around us and visibility obscured, it was almost dreamlike. North of the pass is Canada, the narrow strip of extreme northwest British Columbia wedged between Southeast Alaska and Yukon. Things are drier and colder here, being influenced by arctic air from the north. Ahead of us there is a long narrow alpine valley with high mountains crowning every end. The difference between the verdant subalpine valley behind us and the rocky landscape in front of us is stark and the delineation sharp. There is not much blending of landscapes here, it is one and then it is the other. I have never experienced such an immediate and utter landscape shift and as well crossed the pass, I gasped and threw my hands in the air, shocked by the beauty but also jarred by the sudden change of landscape and weather. Ahead is an alpine wonderland of blue sky, sunshine, rock, and snow. The air is crisp and I’m smiling.

Down the slope and into valley, we are out of avalanche danger. I turn around to look back toward the pass and consider the clouds seemingly stuck to the mountains. The character of Southeast Alaska is defined by what I see. The clouds, the rain, the glaciers; all are possible only through the interaction of ocean and mountain. The temperate rainforest, in turn oppressive and uplifting, home to large lichen-draped trees and rich understories, lumbering bears and spawning salmon, a quiet and mysterious forest, is the result of ten thousand years of clouds forming against mountains. They linger and release torrents of rain to the benefit of waterlogged muskegs and soft moss underfoot. On high mountains, the precipitation falls as snow which piles up and compresses into ice under its own weight. From these icefields, glaciers flow down toward the sea and sculpt the land. It is all so simple and monumental.

Cloud-filled sky looking back toward the Chilkoot Pass and Alaska

Turning back to the north, I see that we are now in a rain shadow. This land is not devoid of precipitation, the deep snow still present in June makes that clear, but it is remarkably drier than it is back in Alaska just a quarter of a mile to the south. I know that as we head north and eventually descend back to the tree line, we will see a different set of plants and habitat of a more open character, a plant community shaped by dry and cold rather than warm and wet.

Even in the middle of valley, there is still a lot of snow. But we walk past several large green fields and I imagine that in a few weeks this place will be free of snow and in bloom. In the saturated fields, I see coltsfoot (Petasites frigidus) flowers like old fashioned shaving cream brushes emerging between the heather. In even muckier places I see white marsh-marigold (Caltha leptosepala) blooming with their white flowers almost iridescent in this bright light. These plants are among the first of the sparse vegetation to push new growth in this rocky alpine valley. When the snow recedes, plants must grow rapidly to take full advantage of the short summer. In this valley, melting snow uncovers more than plant and rock. Leaning against a pile of rocks near the trail we find a rusted circular saw blade, a strategically placed artifact and one of countless along the trail.

It’s impossible to write about this area without mentioning its human history. The trail is maintained not just for the brilliant scenery, but also for its recent historical significance. The Chilkoot Trail was the main path taken into the country by fortune seekers just over 120 years ago at the beginning of the Klondike Gold Rush. Following the established route long used by the coastal Tlingit to trade with Athabaskan of the interior, tens of thousands of people on boats from Seattle and San Francisco disembarked at Dyea, Alaska to make this long trek to the Yukon River. From there they could float the river to Dawson City and glory. The struggle must have been intense for these people. In addition to the necessary gold prospecting supplies each person had to bring enough food to last a year, a requirement for entrance into Canada. Most of the prospectors came from cities and small towns with temperate climates and lacked experience in the type of rugged wilderness in front of them. They now hiked over a snowy mountain pass into unfamiliar land far from home with an actual “ton of goods” to a person. Moving this amount of material required multiple trips so instead of a single trek, a person would go back and forth and back and forth and back and forth with manageable loads, slowly moving their lot of goods along the trail. There were so many of them and the going so slow that unbroken lines of travelers would form as they trudged up toward the mountain pass. People died in avalanches on the way up the pass and on the raging rivers they floated down the other side. Almost no one struck it rich and many came to ruin in the wild.

I struggle when thinking about this stampede for many reasons. Looking around, I have a hard time imagining that mass of humanity here. There would have been thousands of them in this valley at a time. The vast majority of them were men, and stoic nineteenth century men though they were, there was still probably a cacophony of noise: the grunting, spitting, laughter, and cussing of 22,000. In this valley, an eternity of near silence was broken by three years of insanity. I have a hard time imagining the rush they were in to get through and away. As they grit their teeth against the gods of fate and forces of nature, I wonder how they saw this alpine valley. Did they see it as beautiful or a hindrance? Was it part of the adventure or the means to an end? I struggle thinking about them, and it reflects on me because it should be easy to condemn them. I want to romanticize what was surely a disgusting thing. Though I am repulsed by the greed that drove them, I admire their bravery. As gullible as they might have been, I admire their optimism. As destructive as they were toward land and people, they are recent ancestors. The prospectors on this trail were as complex as our country: admirable, stubborn, and damnable. Their actions were bad, but how could I understand them? Just 115 years later, my experience in this alpine valley could hardly be more different from theirs. They were recklessly catapulting themselves into the unknown. I have a ferry ticket back home in a few days.

They are often called stampeders and for good reason. They left in their wake literal destruction and their actions caused the displacement of indigenous people. It was an act of desperation and greed fueled by some of our worst impulses. It was linked to manifest destiny and all of the associated ugliness. And here I am hiking and living on this stolen land. Their actions cannot be justified and won’t be, but what we all have to wrestle with is that we live our lives in the world they created.

I take a deep breath of the invigorating alpine air and re-center myself. The past cannot be changed, but today and tomorrow can be better. Every time I am in a beautiful place, I am energized to live lighter.

And though I don’t want to leave, we move on through the valley across snow patches and streams. We pick our way through boulders fields and outcrops catching glimpses of the intense dark blue of frigid water revealed as snow melts over tarn. We are soaking up the sun. The clouds ringing the south and west boundaries of this valley and stuck on the now distant mountains pose no threat. We pause for another look around and a snack. I start to think of these stops as a purposeful delay tactic. I know that what lies ahead will also be beautiful, but we’re coming to the end of this alpine valley and that is sad. As we continue on the gradual descent, the first trees come into view. Weather-beaten evergreens contorted into all sorts of agonized shapes huddled low to the ground. And finally the sound of rushing water. A low rumble that grows louder with each step until finally we see it ahead. Flowing swiftly through a narrow canyon, this stream drains the alpine valley we have just passed through. The stampeders followed it down to Lindeman Lake where they built rafts to carry them down the Yukon River. They stopped in Dawson City, but they could have followed this water all the way to the Bering Sea. This stream is our exit as well.