"Worth the Effort"

WORTH THE EFFORT

(greatly revised from the late 1990s original)

For years, I had noticed Cecil Rhode Mountain standing along the Sterling Highway, casting a cold shadow on the Snug Harbor section of Cooper Landing and appearing to eye me contemptuously, daring me to climb it. And for years I had scanned the mountain’s thick, pyramidal base, its nearly vertical northern face, and its knifelike upper ridge, wondering how I could break through its low swaths of hemlock, Devil’s club and buck brush to reach its summit.

I knew that the view from up there—of Kenai Lake and the Kenai River valley, of the Quartz Creek drainage, of Cooper Lake and Cooper Mountain, and of Round Mountain across the way, acting as gateway to the lowland flats and the freshwater lakes sparkling all the way to Cook Inlet—would be amazing, like the view from a balloon floating silently 4,500 feet above the earth.

And then one day in 1986, a hiking buddy of mine named Drew informed me that he had learned of a path to the top. A man he knew from Cooper Landing had followed the old Cooper Lake dam road, and then carved a trail straight up the mountain’s western flank to treeline. All we’d have to do, he assured me, was find the trailhead and be prepared to grunt our way to the top. That was all I needed to go--except the date we would be hiking. Within a few days I was standing at the summit of Cecil Rhode Mountain, and the panoramic view from there was every bit as spectacular as I had hoped. I had never seen so much of the Kenai River watershed without being airborne. Nearly every snow-capped mountain I could see, nearly every lake and every stream, drained into the Kenai River system.

I determined on that day that I would be back, and that, after perhaps one reconnaissance jaunt up the mountain, I would hike farther along the ridges behind the main peak. I was right, but I had no idea what I was in for.

 By the time I returned in earnest in 1992, I had done my research. According to my maps, my observations and my calculations, my brother Lowell and I could ascend Cecil Rhode Mountain, then follow the razor-like ridgeline south toward a large telecommunications dish located about a mile away. From there, we could hike along the horseshoe-shaped the ridge until it began to veer north, forming the eastern flank of the mountain and the opposite side of the Shackleford Creek basin. Once on the far ridge, we could follow its hogback descent and then walk along Shackleford Creek itself until we reached the road. It seemed simple enough.

Our first surprise, on a day that seemed constantly to threaten rain without actually ever providing any, came near the telecommunications structure. There, as I approached the large dish and a small array of other equipment, I heard a sound, similar to but louder than the sound a hiking boot might make clattering over loose shale. I looked down but saw nothing at my feet that might account for the sound. I even backed up and retraced my steps, hoping to somehow to duplicate a sound I didn’t feel responsible for.

Then I heard it again. Lowell was behind me and down the ridge a ways, so I ran on ahead to investigate on my own. As I neared a large wooden crate, the clattering suddenly increased, and then a small mountain goat clambered up from inside the box, sprang free and bounded away down the ridge. For a few moments, I just stood there, too stunned to speak. When Lowell caught up, I described what I’d seen, and he eyed me skeptically. “Let’s go look in the box,” I suggested, and so we did, finding its damp sides literally plastered with matted goat hair.

For about the next three hours, we saw goats. No more boxes but plenty of goats, more than 40 of them, mostly munching in alpine meadows or sleeping on rocky ledges.

Later, as we made our way along the eastern ridge, we spotted below us a bald eagle riding rising air currents from down near Kenai Lake. Then we came across a hawk, perched atop a large boulder, picking at the remains of a recent kill; it flew off as we approached, leaving behind a golf-ball-sized gut pile, neatly speckled with blood and tiny gray feathers--probably the remains of an unwary rock ptarmigan.

Finally we were at the end of the main ridge and ready for a descent toward the treeline. Below us lay thick rocky humps plastered with brush and gnarled evergreens, a long snaking climb down to the road where my wife, Karen, would be awaiting us. Lowell glanced at his watch; we were behind schedule, and I doubted aloud that we would be able to make it out by our prearranged meeting time. I suggested that we consider a detour: going straight down the mountain’s steep western flank to the road, then walking up the road to Karen. And for some reason, Lowell took me up on this idiotic suggestion.

What followed was—without a doubt—the worst descent I’ve ever endured. I tried to cross a steep snow slide, using a thick stick as a brace; the stick broke in half and caused me to lose my balance. I shot like a rocket down the snow a couple hundred feet into a pile of rocks. Although I broke no bones, I found the snow had abraded a large patch of skin off my left forearm. Lowell and I treated the arm with an antibacterial cream, some gauze and an Ace bandage, then continued our descent.

Reaching the bottom from that point involved plenty of tumbling off small cliffs, dangling helplessly from limber alder branches, stabbing Devil’s club stickers into our palms through wet leather gloves and Gore-Tex jackets, and falling, plenty of falling. Beaten up and emotionally drained, we still had two miles of hard-packed road to walk to reach my wife, who did not for even for two minutes miss the fact that I had managed to hurt myself again.

I’ve been back twice, however.

The view is that good.

******************

Feb. 13, 2012 POSTSCRIPT: The final two lines above were written, as I said earlier, in the late 1990s. After a trail scouting-and-marking mission on July 31, 2000, Drew and I went back in August with chainsaws and hand tools and spent literally hundreds of man-hours building a trail up the Shackleford Creek ridgeline, thereby officially connecting the western and eastern ridgelines with a traversible trail. I estimate now that I have been on at least some portion of Cecil Rhode Mountain nearly 30 times and have completed the full traverse 8 times (9, if you count my misadventure with Lowell). Despite the rigors associated with Cecil Rhode Mountain, it is easily my favorite hike, and I delight in guiding friends along its lengthy course. I’ve hiked it in pouring rain and high winds (on the same trip, actually), in gorgeous sunshine under bluebird skies, in nearly impenetrable fog, in air cold enough to produce steam from my breath in mid-summer, and over large swaths of snow and over snow-depleted ridgelines. I never seem to tire of its variety and its beauty.