Last January, we traveled to the Fielding Lake State Recreation Area with friends for a weekend of snowmachining and camaraderie. It was cold. Very cold. I came home and immediately made reservations for the middle of summer. After many months of waiting, the last weekend in July finally rolled around and I got to go back, this time with my daughter, Rowan, and mother-in-law, Carol.
As I drove down the gravel road we'd snowmachined in winter, I tried to reconcile what I was seeing with my memory. Gone were the treeless expanses of white, unblemished hillocks blending into the mountainside. Instead, a sea of dwarf birch extended around me, occasional willows adding highlights to the waves of green. Yarrow and cotton grass impersonated flecks of foam, while scattered cinquefoil added a splash of color.
The cabin was just as I remembered it, minus frost-encrusted corners. It seemed roomier, however, with only three of us instead of seven. It officially sleeps six, but I think four would be just right. Four plywood bunks line one wall, two narrow ones above two wider ones. The back bottom bunk doubles as the seat along one side of a table; a bench sits on the other side. Behind the bench is an open cupboard for storage. A few magazines had been left by past guests, as well as newspaper ad pages for fire starting. A small woodstove is centered on the wall opposite the bunks, with hatchets and saws provided for cutting up wood you supply. (I have to say, I enjoyed making kindling with a hatchet instead of a maul. My fingers were much safer, too.) Three windows are hung with dingy white calico, the only decoration in the room. Two lines are strung above head level to dry wet gear. We didn't need them this trip, but they were very handy in the winter. The little log cabin's nothing fancy, but it makes cozy temporary home.
After unloading my truck into the cabin and leaving everything in piles, we took off to explore our weekend home. The Alaska Atlas and Gazetteere show trails going part way around the lake in both directions from the boat launch, but we couldn't find evidence of anything resembling a real trail. It wasn't difficult to pick our way through the brush, however, so we set off to the left (I think that would be the west side of the lake). We all wore Keen sandals, and we were glad of it as we sank repeatedly into boggy areas - prime growing conditions for arctic cotton. We discussed briefly the possibility of trying to spin this very short, slippery fiber, but came to our senses and wandered on without collecting any.
Rowan discovered the remains of freshwater snails, and we all gave into our naturalist tendencies, peering at the ground as we sloshed along the lake edge.
Finally overcome with the urge to just relax for a while, not to mention a "trail" that disappeared, we wandered back to the cabin and set up the camp chairs. Rowan couldn't resist the water anymore and dug out her swimsuit. She tried to convince us that the outflow creek across from the cabin was warm, but she lied. I was happy to wade in just far enough and long enough to take a few photos of the privately-owned cabin a short bit down the creek. As it was, I courted frostbite.
Rowan wanted deeper water to play in, so she and Carol walked over to the boat launch ramp while I hung out by the creek. Even with the wind blowing, it was quiet enough that I could hear air moving through a duck's flight feathers as she lowered them in preparation for a landing. My near-meditation was interrupted only by the American flag above our cabin impersonating heavy footsteps as it snapped and flapped, and the desire to photograph small things which caught my eye.
We rounded out the night with a campfire, of course (given dry wood, I actually can build something other than a "Miller smolder"). I took the opportunity to cook on the grill rather than on my campstove. Sloppy Joes and tater tots never tasted so good.
My one goal in coming back to Fielding Lake was to find the suspension bridge we'd ridden to in January. I thought I remembered where the road to it was, but wasn't sure. Thane, usually the navigator extraordinaire, was of no help when I asked him before we left. Saturday morning we loaded our packs with water, lunches, binoculars, and cameras, and headed out to explore. There aren't many side roads in that stretch of country, so we took the most likely one, even though the brown mileage sign at its start suggested that it might just be an Trans-Alaska Pipeline access road. My hopes grew, however, as we crossed the pipeline (it was underground at that point) and the road continued. The gravel surface deteriorated into potholes and then into cobble. Eventually, it ended a couple of miles later at a creek bed. With Carol's guidance, I was able to turn around my 19-foot truck without any damage being caused by the large rocks around me. I'll tell you, my shoulder does not like me hanging onto a steering wheel while bouncing around for miles. Aspirin was required.
We started walking. There was a definite, if unmarked, trail to follow. Just around the corner, there it was: the suspension bridge. I love it when my incredibly poor navigational skills get me to where I want to be! We figured out later that the bridge crosses College Creek which flows from College Glacier. I counted the slats on our return trip: 223 slats led me to estimate the bridge is about 225 feet long, not counting the ramps at either end.
With some trepidation we started across one at a time, Rowan insisting that no one bounce the bridge while she was on it. Of course, once she was over and it was Carol's turn, she thought it would be great fun to bounce. Given that the sides consist of horizontal cables about waist high and vertical cables about every six feet, the chances of being bounced off were a little to high. No intentional bouncing occurred. I tried to get Rowan and Carol to look up at me while they were walking so I could take their pictures, but their eyes were nearly glued to the slats. You can see from the expression on Rowan's face that looking up and smiling was almost too much to ask.
Once over the bridge, the trail continued on to the next creek which flowed out of Gulkana Glacier (we found no indication that it was called Gulkana Creek, however). The trail then followed the creek up to the glacier. It was an easy trail, mostly sand interrupted by sections of cobble. River beauty and Eskimo potato were in abundance, along with a few other flowers we didn't know the names of. Carol's legs got too tired for us to get all the way to the glacier, but it looked like we could have reached ice without too much trouble. We estimated we'd walked 2 - 3 miles; the glacier was probably another couple of miles further.
I tried to do it, really I did. After my inability to leave my blessing string under a cairn in Thompson Pass a few weeks ago, I tried to do it again here. As we ate our lunch in a patch of crusty lichen, I spotted an iron-stained sandstone rock that complemented the gold of my blessing string beautifully. I actually took off my string and wrapped it three times (an auspicious number) around the rock. My plan was to drop it off the suspension bridge into College Creek. It's now sitting on my dresser as I type. I took it off, but separation anxiety prevented me from leaving it behind. I don't really understand my hesitation, but I'll follow my gut for now.
Once back at camp, another lazy afternoon ensued. About 4:00, I noticed a woman setting up a small wooden box on a tripod. I pointed her out to Rowan with a comment about wondering what she was doing. I expressed no interest in asking, so Rowan just walked right up to her by herself and asked. Turns out Deb from Pennsylvania was a painter, presently working in water-soluble oil paints (I went and got a few details myself). Rowan told her we were all painters, too, and carried her chair and watercolors over to Deb's spot so they could paint landscapes together. (Hmm, I didn't think to get a photo of Rowan's painting to include here. Maybe I will later.) A happy couple of hours ensued until dinner by the campfire was ready.
Sunday we were all sad to have to head home. We poked along as we drove, checking out a couple of other campgrounds as we went. Paxson Lake campground is just a bit further south, and while it doesn't have a public-use cabin, it would be a much nicer spot for camper or tent camping. There are more camp sites and they are more isolated than the few at Fielding Lake. Even further south is Sourdough campground on the Gulkana River, another lovely spot. We'll be spending time at both of them in the future. The other stop I highly recommend is Jeannie's Java in Gulkana, just 15 miles north of Glennallen. Rowan and I had found her business card up on Thompson Pass, and decided we had to check it out. We stopped while driving both directions for Indian tacos, chicken salad sandwiches, and espresso shakes. Expensive, but delicious.
Rowan and I agreed that we'd like to reserve the cabin again next year. I'm thinking two reservations: one for snowmachining in early spring, and another in September when Thane can go with us. I will make it to Gulkana Glacier next year.
