We pull into Talkeetna swarming with tourists ambling down the middle of the road apparently oblivious to cars trying to get through. The town is so packed we have difficulty finding a parking place. Unheard of. On the train we catch up with one set of friends bringing their summer visitors from Georgia for a sightseeing trip and another set of friends bringing their visitors from Wisconsin to their cabin for the weekend. A french speaking Swiss family with three kids and big heavy packs want to get off fifty miles up the tracks at mile 277, a good place to camp in the wilderness. Two twenty something young men have loaded their kayaks into the baggage car and plan to get off at Indian River. They can put in at the mouth where it runs into the Susitna and have a nice 40 mile or so paddle back to Talkeetna. Two other twenty somethings have more ambitious plans. They are also carrying heavy packs with pak-canoes which they will carry to about a 3000 ft elevation up over the high alpine country and down the other side of the ridge to put in at Baking Creek which flows into Clear Creek then into the Talkeetna River. They too will have a nice paddle back to town. I notice they have their eyes on Dan and finally, almost shyly, they ask him if he knows the area. Actually Dan probably knows it better than anyone having trapped all through there. They get out their maps and listen intently to everything he tells them, their questions showing the obvious preparation they made for the trip. I add a few things myself, like the caribou they should see and the bears. The mother in me comes out and I ask “Do you have lots of bear spray?” Their nods tell me they’ve been following the news about the young hikers mauled by a bear that has been all over the television almost every night for a week.
Our stop comes up quickly before they have all their questions asked. Dan tells them, “You’ll do fine” and they should. I worry that we didn’t tell them about the alders. I remember my own trip over the tundra and down to Baking Creek through miles of alder bushes which grow so thick you have to almost weave your way through them. We had been walking almost all day, its was dark, I spent a good few hours on the descent tripping and falling through alders and I was tired. When we finally came out of the alders down by Clear Creak I was ready to set up camp for the night and go no further. But Dan said “Not here, I don’t want any trees falling on us.” Imagine how strange that sounds. I remember thinking at the time why on earth would he be worried about trees falling on us. I managed to drag myself a little further before absolutely collapsing in my sleeping bag. Sure enough, in the middle of the night, off in the distance I hear a tree crashing to the ground then a quiet voice in the night, “Bet you're glad you're not camped under that.”
As we get off the train we wave everyone on to their adventures and head down to the river to catch our dinner. The pair of swans in the beaver pond are swimming lazily along and you can just barely see the still gray cygnets above the pond grass. We find the creek low so the clearwater running into the river is pretty narrow. Not much fishing room. Dan still comes away with three grayling and a trout. Unlike my good luck last time my two that I hooked got away but I didn’t lose any lures this time and Dan has more than enough for us both. While we were fishing we noticed an occasional humpy cresting out in the middle of the river. Another sign of a waning summer and a reminder that bears will soon be sharing our favorite fishing spot. More reason to be bothered by visions of the latest bear mauling and here I go, fish in hand, through tall ferns and thick willows.
The next morning brings another perfect summer day, all my senses tuning me in to beach memories of the beach. Its the kind of day I would head for the ocean early to get the best of it. My cabin substitute is the bridge over the creek.
I set up my beach chair, put on sun block, listen to the water gurgling and splashing against the rock, spilling over little falls.
A perfect little pool in the stream beckons clear and clean but I know its too cold. I wouldn’t last 5 minutes. Not ten minutes after settling in for a good summer read I’m moving my chair into the shade. Above me a jet stream streaks white against a clear deep blue sky. A water ouzel sings down the creek somewhere, not exactly a seagull but I’ll take it.
A quiet summer day at the cabin, time to revel in the beauty of the earth.