Thunder Mountain — Plant in Place

The trail to Thunder Mountain really kicks up right at the end. Suddenly I am free of the trees and on a flat ridge which acts as a divide. Looking back, there is sweeping view of the mountains ranges and islands that populate Southeast Alaska. Shimmering water and distant high peaks. Directly below me 2,600 feet down, residential Juneau, the capital of Alaska, squeezes into the narrow strip of flat land between mountain and water. From here I can see the airport, landfill, and jail, the abandoned Walmart, roads and neighborhoods. All of it the ugly and completely normal stuff found in every town. But it is strange to see those things from here because when I turn around and show my back to all of that, I am confronted with the most majestic natural landscape. It’s not just in front of me, I’m actually in it. This cramming together of things which are normally kept apart is what makes Juneau. The experience at the divide is aural just as much as it is visual. It’s actually incredible to experience the shift in sound. On one side is the sound of humanity. Vehicles streaming up and down Juneau’s lone highway, oversized trucks roaring their hearts out, pedal to the metal, frustrated by the reality of two dead ends confining fifty miles of isolated highway. Going a few more steps and just slightly down on the other side of the divide, the sound quickly turns to wind, and animals, and nothing.

Of the places I have ever hiked, Thunder Mountain is one a surprisingly small number places that I have visited more than once. Nine or ten times, I’ve slogged up that path, mucked through the little pocket muskegs, jumped from rock to rock through mud, grabbed at rope and root on stretches too steep to really be called trail, fallen on slick wood boards placed over some of the muddiest sections. Once in a rush to get back down before sunset, I got turned around and briefly lost in a section where the trail gets obscured by fallen trees and mud patches. Side paths wind throughout, blazed by confused people and trampled into permanence by later hikers blindly following the blind. I took one that faded to nothing. Backtracking, I eventually found my way. Along most of the trail, noise from town permeates the forest. Really, the trail to Thunder Mountain is a few miles of subpar hiking. But up on top, everything below is forgotten. The trail, the noise, it’s gone. Where it comes out above the trees on this dividing ridgeline, I am at the base of a giant horseshoe laid flat. The right arm of the horseshoe, Heintzleman Ridge, is rocky and steep, narrow, jagged, and a little bit uninviting. It runs a long way back toward more wild landscape and it is impressive. The left arm of the horseshoe, Thunder Mountain, is rolling, green and short, the direction to go to roam freely and with ease. Straight ahead, pointing more or less northeast through the middle of the horseshoe is a relatively small valley, or basin, where the land drops away slowly and forms a lush subalpine meadow absolutely brimming with wildflowers in the summer. Small stands of exploratory trees find life pleasant enough up through the middle of the sheltered basin, though they’re really more at home at the far end of the basin, where land drops quickly back toward sea level. The view beyond the basin is of rocky high peaks, those that guard the massive Juneau Icefield, an icy wasteland the size of Rhode Island that is the source of many of the glaciers in this area. Mendenhall Glacier, certainly the most visited of those glaciers, can be seen from here as it snakes down between the mountains. What a place. To be suddenly transported to a view like this, an experience like this, is not something that should be taken for granted.

At the top of the trail, I always head left. After the chore of getting up here, the open rolling landscape atop Thunder Mountain is irresistible. A worn down path leads the way but I usually wander freely, mindful of the little mountain plants that live up here in this not-quite-alpine zone. Subalpine plants like narcissus anemone (Anemone narcissiflora), wooly geranium (Geranium erianthum), and lupine (Lupinus sp.) grow all along the ridgeline, a sign that this isn’t quite rugged alpine land. Less frequent are small plants like glaucous gentian (Gentiana glauca) and wedgeleaf primrose (Primula cuneifolia). Along with the prostrate arctic willow (Salix arctica) and partridgefoot (Luetkea pectinata), these more hardened alpine plants are found along Thunder Mountain where soil is thin and lichen-encrusted rock is exposed. Though happy enough, these alpine plants are probably more at home across the basin on Heintzleman Ridge. But here they are, and here I am, so I’m down on my belly taking pictures. I’m in no rush. In midsummer at this northern latitude, the sun doesn’t set until after 10:00 and it hardly gets dark even after that. On Thunder Mountain in the morning, I have what feels like an eternity of day ahead.

The ridge runs about a mile, all of it wonderland. Skirting past small tarns, hopping streams, watching for marmots and mountain goats, I eventually come to a point where the land drops quickly back into the forest. There is a spot near the end of the open ridge with plenty of little hummocks to lean against. This is my favorite place for lunch and a long sit. The view is epic, showing all of Mendenhall Lake, the face and length of the Mendenhall Glacier on its far shore, the mountains. Getting up and moving a little bit closer to the outside edge of the ridge, I can see the visitor center, often packed with people, and the large forested flatland that sits on the nearshore of Mendenhall Lake. Just past that, further yet from the lake, is Juneau’s version of sprawling suburbia, Mendenhall Valley tamed and cul-de-sac’ed. It’s a very steep slope and a long way down to civilization below. Most of the wide, flat Mendenhall Valley is visible from here as it runs the few miles from Mendenhall Lake to the saltwater. It is mind boggling to imagine ice filling all of it as it once did. Amazingly, even just 100 years ago Mendenhall Lake didn’t yet exist because the glacier still covered it. Going back to my leaning hummock, the populated Mendenhall Valley is again out of sight. I stare at the shrinking glacier sitting on the far end of the lake. I imagine it staring back toward the valley it once filled, a shadow of its former self and still retreating.

Wildflower meadow in the basin below Thunder Mountain

Lunch over, napped and sunned, I tear myself from the view and head down the gentle slope that leads from the ridge to lush subalpine meadow in the basin. The basin is a few hundred feet lower in elevation than the ridge, has deeper and moister soil, and is sheltered from the weather, all of which makes a big difference in the plant community. Unlike the small plants that grow up on the exposed ridge, down here everything is large and leafy. Deer cabbage (Nephrophyllidium crista-galli) covers the hillside, turning large tracks of land a dull yellow just before the first dustings of snow in fall. Water loving coltsfoot (Petasites frigidus) and leatherleaf saxifrage (Leptarrhena pyrolifolia) choke the streams that flow down from the ridge, while broadpetal gentian (Gentiana platypetala) and white bog orchid (Platanthera dilatata) are found growing together on the edge of those streams. In dry areas lower down in the basin, lady fern (Athyrium filix-femina), Sitka burnet (Sanguisorba stipulata), and arrowleaf ragwort (Senecio triangularis) among many others fill the landscape. Larkspurleaf monkshood (Aconitum delphiniifolium) and green false hellebore (Veratrum viride), both beautiful and seriously poisonous plants, stand out in these diverse and dense meadows. The first time visiting this place, a sunny summer day in 2010, I was dumbstruck. Here was my “The Hills are Alive” moment, pure mountain joy, an actual pastoral subalpine meadow. I had never before been in such a plant-rich mountain meadow, certainly not one with a view of a glacier. I scanned the ridge to ensure I was alone. Then I frolicked, and I mean that seriously, totally, and completely. I’m unashamed to say that was one of the memorable and formative moments of my life.

Summer is pure joy up on Thunder Mountain but I think fall is just as good, though the experience is slightly different. As the days shorten and plants prepare for winter, the mountains are suddenly painted in earth tones, the ones with vivid names. Russet, ochre, and umber are set off by streaks of evergreen and vibrant red. The mosaic of plants is seen, the complexity of this landscape revealed. Fall is moody, the land certainly more imposing than in summer. I sense the truth; the mountain is not a place to be taken lightly. It’s cold, and when the wind comes up, it’s bitterly cold. Instead of leisurely sprawling out to soak up the sun, I huddle against a rock outcrop, leeward. The few battered trees scattered along this ridge, trees that I don’t give a second thought to in summer, suddenly make a lot of sense. They tell the story of winter up here on Thunder Mountain. But I love being cold. Ice coats the small sedges along streams, fresh snow dusts the mountain peaks, and I feel invigorated. And it’s truly quiet. In the summer, even across the divide where noise from town is blocked by the surrounding ramparts, helicopters are unavoidable. Flying overhead, there is nothing to block the whir of rotor. Tourists heading up to the icefield, Forest Service transporting loads to remote worksites, helicopters are just a part of life. And they’re so damn loud. In summer, you can always count on a few helicopter disruptions when out on a hike. By October, cruise ships are heading to the tropics and work crews are mostly wrapped up. The quiet of Thunder Mountain is known.

The one small problem with going down into the basin is that I have to go back up onto the ridge in order to reconnect to the trail home. But avoiding the marmot holes that cover this part of the hillside, leg-breakers if you are careless or unlucky, the way back up to the ridgeline isn’t too much trouble. Walking among all these holes is a good reminder that even when no other person is up here, you’re never really alone. These subalpine meadows are important and productive habitat for a lot of different animals. On this hillside I almost always see marmots sitting on the small knolls that their digging creates. Wary of predators, they keep a close eye on strangers and I never see them stray too far from an escape hole. Their call, a high pitched whistle, is wild and one of the indelible sounds of this terrain. Bears also roam up here occasionally. I once saw a large black bear ambling along the ridge maybe four hundred yards away. It was the ultimate bear, so at ease, moving slowly and deliberately, at home and in control. Not on constant alert in the way of a skittish prey animal, not in a rush in the way of an animal worried about survival, a lumbering bear is remarkably human-like. I watched it and it watched me, both totally aware of the other but neither of us too concerned. As it continue moving slowly away from me, every few minutes it stopped to look back and sniff my scent on the air. Curious, but not really interested. Eventually I turned to leave and the bear remained.

Open landscape along Thunder Mountain ridge

Mendenhall Lake and Glacier from Thunder Mountain ridge

Back on the ridge, the loop of Thunder Mountain and the basin below complete, there is a chance for one last look back over the scene before heading down. Only a sliver of Mendenhall Glacier is visible from here and it gets me thinking about the rapid retreat again. In my mind, I follow the glacier back up toward the icefield. Certainly out of sight from here, I picture the scene even though I’ve only seen it from the window of an airplane: vast white expanses broken only by rocky nunataks, the exposed high points of mountains, buried giants, islands of rock just poking out above the ice. That’s what it once looked like where I stand. When Mendenhall Valley was covered in ice at the last glacial maximum 20,000 years ago, the glaciers didn’t just cover the valley floor, they filled UP the valley. This entire ridge, every bit of the trail I walked to get here, was once buried under ice. Only the very highest points of the tallest mountains around me would have been exposed, nunataks in their time. It’s certain that Mendenhall Glacier will continue to recede. As it does it will leave in its wake an open valley above Mendenhall Lake, new land for plants and animals. That’s what happened in Mendenhall Valley below. That is also what happened in the smaller basin I just walked out of, once covered by a thousand feet of ice and now a place where brilliant wildflowers and wildlife abounds. Like everything else here, it was sculpted by advance and exposed by retreat. It doesn’t give me any comfort or hope for the future, but it is awe inspiring.

I love the ridge, Thunder Mountain and the basin below it. I have been up there alone, with friends, for fun and for work, in summer and in fall, on cloudy days with passing rain, in bitter cold, and on sun-filled summer days. I have had some of my most euphoric nature experiences up there, felt alive and free. I feel like I know it and yet in truth, I’ve hardly been up there at all. Ten times in my whole life? Let alone ten times in the long history of the mountain. I don’t know it at all. And I have to remind myself, it’s not about knowing a place. What an impossible task for a human and one absurd to attempt. More importantly, it is the wrong mindset. We seek to figure out secrets and the exert dominance over nature, but it’s just partial knowledge that is often treated as if it were full understanding. We act on it anyway and the result of this presumed knowledge is often toxic, both literally and figuratively. I really don’t want to be a part of that and it’s good to push against even though it’s impossible to escape and even though I recognize how I benefit from it. What I should say is this: I know more about myself because of Thunder Mountain. And I feel the place, which is different from knowing the place.

I was most recently up on Thunder Mountain this past fall, the first time in about four years. It was cold and beautiful. The sky was grey and textured above the colorful mountain slopes. I followed my usual route along the ridge, sat for a long time and looked around. I went down into the basin where I looked around for a while longer. On the way back up, I avoided the marmot holes, jumped over a few streams, and was soon on the ridge again. I looked back over the basin, out along Heintzleman Ridge and Thunder Mountain, beyond to Mendenhall Glacier and the surrounding high peaks, and I waved good-bye. One more moment of silence and then I was over the divide, confronted again by the noise of Juneau and feeling very good.