When you grow up in Minnesota and spend your adult life mostly in Kansas City, seeing a mountain is a departure from your usual reality. It indicates time away from Real Life. It helps put life and whatever problems there may be into perspective, and triggers awed inspiration in even the most calloused of observers.
But there are perhaps no more wild and beautiful mountains than those found in the state of Alaska. We just returned from ten days amidst them, time spent visiting my sweet and generous brother, Charlie, and his caring and wonderful wife, Laurel. Seeing them makes the trip worthwhile, of course, in and of itself. The mountains are an added bonus for us.
We are lucky, because seeing our family on their home turf goes along with the additional thrill of a spectacular view from the front windows and the back ones, too. Whether you are sitting in the dining room or working in the kitchen, you have a view that is breathtaking and spectacular. [Well, you do as long as the mountains aren't socked in, as they were pretty much the entire time we were there. I brought my usual drought ending phenomenon to Alaska and saved them from the summer wildfires they usually experience this time of year.]
When you say Alaskan mountains, most people think of Mt. McKinley, the jewel of the Alaska Range. But for me, I think of other mountains, rugged, wild and accessible - at least if my brother is around. Because he will spare himself no effort in order to bring the full experience to us while we are there. And on this trip, since the mountains by his home weren't very available, he drove us halfway across the state to some that were. And what an unbelievable experience it was.
We were fortunate enough to visit the ghost town of Kennecott, located in the Wrangell-St. Elias National Park. Kennecott is remote and isolated, 60 miles down a rough and rugged gravel road [the former railroad bed, in fact] from the nearest pavement.
Kennecott is an eerie remnant of the massive copper mining operation that produced over 5 million tons of copper ore during it's active life. The town was a bustling, thriving village at the end of an isolated, single rail line. Supplies were ordered from Seattle, and the only link with civilization was the train that was originally built to carry the copper ore away to be processed. It had to be a rather fragile and tenuous connection with the outside world. In consequence, they built up a town that was as modern as a turn of the century village in the middle of the Alaskan wilds could be.
When the good ore ran out, the village was abandoned, lock, stock and barrel. When my brother first visited the area in 1977, before it became a national landmark and any reclamation had been done, he found most of the abandoned town held in suspension, everything left in place, almost as if the people expected to be away a day or two and then return to pick up life where they left off.
Records were still in filing cabinets, dishes in the cupboards, furniture and equipment left where they were last in use. I can only imagine that the cost of removing everything exceeded the value of the items in question, and thus, the mining company opted to simply abandon it, rather than go to the expense of hauling it back out of the mountains again.
Fast forward a hundred years, and the town, with it's abandoned buildings and other detritus, has been named a national landmark. It is in the process of being restored, a project massive in scope, which has brought Kennecott back to life again with the influx of engineers and architects and forest service personnel. A supporting cast of restaurant, lodging and guide services have sprung up, too, and suddenly, the ghost town is bustling again.
Kennecott is hardly less remote today than it was back in 1900, and the journey there is a rough and ready reminder of just how isolated that area is. The pavement ends at Chitna, on the Copper River, known to salmon lovers for their world famous fish.
The 60 mile drive from Chitna to McCarthy, on the former railbed, running in the valley between two mountain ranges, is an awe inspiring journey through nature in its purest form, with new and ever more spectacular and breathtaking views around every curve. The forest, pressing in on the road the whole way, is teaming with wildlife native to the area, including bear, moose, and my personal favorite, porcupines.
We parked the van in McCarthy, the last "living" town at the end of the road, and walked over a footbridge to meet the shuttle that would take us into Kennecott. It is like a time warp, in many ways, blasting back into another world and another time.
From a distance, the copper mill looms over the little village, which itself overlooks the massive Root Glacier. The runoff from the mountainside on which it is perched, running through the middle of the town, has claimed many of the buildings that formerly made up the town. The evidence is everywhere of the buildings that have been shoved down the mountainside with the force of the water flowing through them as you can see them smashed and devastated in various places along the water's route.
The process of reclaiming the remaining buildings is well under way, however, with the water being harnessed and rerouted to the best advantage, not to control nature, but to work with it. The buildings are being moved up and out of the way, allowing the water to flow back in it's traditional place. It is a project of enormous scope, and it's clear that it will provide occupation for some time to come, as they are only beginning the long and arduous task of restoration.
The town is nestled on a mountainside, with trails leading in every direction. You can easily head down to the glacier, laid out below in it's spectacular expanse. You can, as easily, head higher into the mountains, aiming for the mines above where the ore was extracted and brought down the mountain to the mill.
The trails cut into the vast, green expanse looming above the town, leading the way to the promise of every mountaintop. When you climb those steep and unforgiving trails [the guide book called them relentlessly steep, which we agreed was a fair description] you feel on top of the world. It is an almost untouchable paradise, where you can easily commune with God and nature in equal measure.
Whatever mountaintop you achieve, there always seems to be one above it to reach for, and you feel small and insignificant as you see the panorama laid out below you. As with every mountain, the scale is deceptive - you feel like everything is right there, within easy range, and then you realize it's still just as far away as when you started.
There is no easy way to reach the heights of the mountaintop. There are no shortcuts in that natural setting. There are no trams, no trains, no gondolas or elevators. To reach your objective, you must make the climb, step by step,each one difficult and arduous, even as it takes your breath away to see the panorama laid out below you. The work to get there makes achieving the mountaintop even more thrilling, and knowing that few are willing to make that effort is rewarding in and of itself.
Every time I go to the mountains, I am awed anew by the wondrous beauty they present. The crashing of tectonic plates deep under the surface of the earth has produced a scene of such beauty and magnificence, words are simply inadequate to describe it.
As you make the climb into the otherworld of the mountains, your senses are almost assaulted by the rugged beauty of nature seldom seen. It is exciting to know that you are walking on territory seldom tread by human feet, and that you are communing with nature much as the earliest settlers did so long ago. What you see today is probably not much different than what they saw a hundred years ago, and I suspect that they were as awed and overwhelmed by their surroundings as we were.
The best part of all, however, comes when you have achieved your goal, and the journey back begins. The trails are not straight down, that would be far too steep. Instead, they zig zag back and forth across the mountainside, leading you from one side to the other, and on each turn, you are treated to yet another view. It is an unexpected gift each time you look up to see the scene has changed - familiar yet different.
The unending far northern daylight allowed us to arrive back at the lodge where we were staying at midnight, still in the light of the waning day. We had a view that was unparalleled the entire way down, not a moment of the wild beauty wasted. I was grateful to my brother and sister-in-law for taking me to the mountaintop, despite their own fatigue and desire to go to bed. It was a rare and unique opportunity for me, and one which I will never forget.
Nature, in her purest form, is simply not reproducible. I took pictures, of course, to remind myself of the experience. When I look at the limited two dimensional representation of that experience, I can conjure up in my memory the thrill of being there, and while it isn't enough, it is adequate, at least for the time being, until I can return and once again experience it for real.
A trip to visit my family is always a gift, and I am grateful for the time and the love we shared. The unexpected gift of the mountaintop, however, came straight from God.
