The Ghost of Lane Hut

Hey Tribe,

Archangel Valley has long been a favorite of mine.  It is absolutely heavenly.   The more commonly traversed and most popular trail branching out from this breathtaking valley is the Reed Lakes trail.  However, I want to share another trail with you, one that has become a bit of a misnomer these days: Lane Hut trail.

Like many trails in the area, there is an abandoned mine along the way and scraps of metal and other equipment debris is scattered about the trail; at the end, there once was a hut – Lane Hut.  The one-room building served as a shelter from the oft-ill weather, but also served as a weekend party house.  The one time I was there, in the deep of winter, the door wouldn’t shut, and there was graffiti covering every surface of the interior.  It did have a drawer full of silverware, oddly enough, which was a combination of relief (I’d forgotten my spoon back in the truck for my clam chowder lunch) and horror (I might catch some unknown disease from the spoon’s germs).  Alas, the park service, in effort to avoid some liability no doubt, set the doomed hut to flames a few years ago and Lane Hut is no more.

However, the 4 mile round trip Lane Hut trail perseveres and TheNurse, Kona, Fly, and I paid the area a visit Sunday afternoon.  The road leading to the unmarked trailhead is not an easy one: once past the overflowing Reed Lakes trail parking lot, the unpaved road is filled with potholes, ruts, rocks, and all manner of road hazards.  Vehicles are parked randomly along the road, where weary or cautious drivers decide they’ve driven far enough and simply stop where they are.  After skillful navigation, we arrived at the trailhead and made our way to the mining remains.  Twisted cart tracks laced the ground in front of the caved in mineshaft and rusty pipes gushed water from their uncapped mouths.  The area felt as if the miners simply got up and left one day and never returned.

After exploring the area briefly and waving to the climbers scaling the massive rock face above the mine, we backtracked to the trail that would lead us deeper into the valley and to the site of the ghost hut.

The trail was an easy one to follow and gradual in its climb, like a long ramp.  Several small streams flowed across the trail and their happy trickling sounds added to our mountain experience.  Termination dust covered the tall jagged rocky peaks that surround the valley, but winter had yet to take hold and we grew hot with effort before too long. 

At the top of the ramp was a wonderful lake.  We stopped to remove jackets and gloves and Fly and Kona ripped around the lake like dogs possessed.  Being a water lover, Kona was quick to exchange running for swimming, and the girls enjoyed a refreshing paddle before we continued up the trail.

Large boulders were strewn about the upper reaches of the valley – evidence of the Earth’s turmoil, as well as the forceful power of winter avalanches that frequent the area.

There were also pools and streams: crystal clear, beautiful, sandy pools and streams.  They always make me gasp when I see them, because this Alaskan girl is so used to seeing glacier silt waters that are murky and muddy.  Mountain streams are impossibly wonderful, in my opinion.

But I digress.  We followed the stream to the end of the valley where a waterfall flowed in the middle of the bowl shaped dead end valley.  Lane Hut once stood here.  Now the area is flat with only the tall spires of the peaks above for visual interest and relief from the moss and low lying alpine plants.

 

After some obligatory waterfall photos, we knew it was time to make our way out of the valley before evening arrived, since the summer daylight hours are retreating as the snow creeps further down the mountains.

So, with a backward glance at the hutless bowl, we descended out of the mountains – our conversation pondering what the valley would look like in 50 years or so: when the mine and the hut would be even further distant memories and time and weather had created more boulders and changed other boulders into rocks.  Would there even be a Lane Hut trail?

Finding Freedom in Hiking Alone - A Day At Hatch Peak

Hey Tribe,

Yesterday was Labor Day and I, like a great deal of Americans, had the day off from work.  So, what are a girl and her dog to do on a glorious late summer day when not at work?  Go hiking, of course!  The only problem was, nobody was willing to go with me.  Undeterred, I decided Fly and I would go by ourselves.  Normally, I fear going alone: what if I hurt myself, or what if I meet people with evil intent, or I’d have nobody to talk to, or I’d have nobody with whom to share the experience, etc.  However, I have realized that I cannot put off what I want to do, because this is my life, I won’t get a second chance, and I only have so many days before my journey on Earth is finished – so instead of waiting for others, I will rely on myself for happiness and do the things I want to do.  Like hiking on a sunny Monday morning. 

The drive was uneventful – most adventuring folks had driven to their destinations after work on Friday and wouldn’t be back on the road until this afternoon.  We did pass a few motorhomes making their way out of the pass, getting an early start for home I suppose, but most of the mountain range was steeped in sleepy quiet.

Only a few people at Summit Lake

We hit the switchbacks leading up to April Bowl just as the sun began to rise over the ridge of the mountain; as we climbed, so did the ridgeline and so did the sun, allowing us to experience an extended sunrise that lasted for our entire climb up the mountainside.

April Bowl lakes were looking especially beautiful, like gemstones around the neck of Hatch Peak.  Their waters reflected the nearly cloudless sky and were a perfectly deep clear blue.  Only the slightest of breezes graced the bowl, keeping the air fresh, and preserving the mirror-like surface that I so greatly appreciate when admiring any mountain lake.

Even on the ridge, the wind was not as forceful as it usually is in the area, so Fly and I were able to traverse the ridgeline in relative comfort.  We met a guy who overtook us during our ascent; we chatted at a mutual rest break as I took off my jacket and stuffed it into my pack.  The morning was warming.  He pointed out across toward Willow and asked if the mountains in the distance were Mt. McKinley.  I tried not to grin too much and pointed in the correct direction, saying Mt. McKinley was one, singular, tall peak, not a mountain range, and that it should be visible from the top of Hatch peak on a clear day like today.

April Bowl

Hatch Peak is the second on the right.

Once Fly and I were properly above the bowl, with the majority of the climb completed, the walking was easier and we could see sweeping views in all directions.  It was pleasant to amble along in silence, enjoying the sunshine, realizing the day was mine and I could use it as I pleased.  I wasn’t on a schedule, didn’t have to be anywhere at a certain time, and had no true destination.  Nobody’s opinion mattered but my own.  We were headed for Hatch Peak, but would we stop there, or continue the ridge to Government Peak, or drop down some unexplored valley – who knew?  The wide expanse of the Talkeetna mountains fueled my joy at how wide open my choices were and the freedom was exhilarating.

Looking out over the Matanuska river and the Knik river beyond it.

My shadow waves hello to the lakes in April Bowl.

There were some early hikers lounging at the top of Hatch Peak.  One woman asked what kind of dog Fly was – we get this question a lot – and after I told her, I added that she was good at keeping bears away from me.  To which the woman replied, “So it sounds like we’re hiking with you for the rest of the day.”  Her group and I all had a good chuckle and I bid them farewell as Fly and I moved down the opposite slope to sit in the warm sunshine and have our summit snack.

Summit selfie.

Sure enough, Mt. McKinley was out in all it's glory.

Trying to get at a ground squirrel.

Alpine contentment is one of my favorite feelings: it comes when I am sitting high up on the side of a mountain, nestled comfortably on the crispy yet soft moss and lichen, listening to the whisper of the wind and scratch of unseen tiny non-scary insects.  I get drowsy and indolent.  Time could pass or stand still and it all seems one and the same, because I am unhurried and quiet both in body and mind.  Alpine contentment is a wonderful experience.  I looked at Fly; she looked at me; we both seemed to share a moment that was only for us.

Slowly, eventually, we roused and I decided it was time for us to begin our return journey.  More hikers were making their way up the ridge and I wanted to maintain our feeling of solitude, so we dipped off the ridge slightly and traversed the alpine slope back toward the bowl before regaining the trail.

After savoring one final moment near the sapphire blue lakes, Fly and I quietly retraced the switchbacks down the mountain to the now fully packed parking lot that was bustling with children, dogs, and excited tourists who were all hurrying to make the most of what was left of their holiday.  I on the other hand, felt no rush. 

What I did feel was the knowledge that I can be content with my own thoughts, can rely on myself in unfamiliar territory, and that hiking can be just as enjoyable if I have a human companion or if I am alone with Fly.  However, if I didn’t have Fly…

A Well Kept Secret - Palmer Moose Creek Trail

Hey Tribe,

I’m going to let you in on a special, secret little-known, trail that has a “locals only” vibe to it.  It is a simple trail, not very technical, and feels so secluded: the hiking trail version of the Secret Garden.  Actually “hiking” isn’t really an accurate description for this trail – it is more of a walking trail, as if you were strolling through Palmer’s very own secret (natural) garden.

As all good gardens should have, this trail has water features (the Matanuska river), framed views (hello, Pioneer Peak), and sculptural elements (vintage railway cars, anyone?).  That’s right: railway cars.  History buffs will appreciate the old railroad tracks that can be seen along the trail, as well as a scattering of rail cars that are slowly tumbling down the embankment and being reclaimed by nature.  It is a six-mile one way wander from Palmer to Sutton. 

  

TheMother and I had a slightly difficult time finding the trailhead, because it is tucked way back in a neighborhood, and the parking area for visitors only holds about three cars.  We circled the block several times and then realized it was indeed where we were supposed to park; luckily a parking spot had just opened up, so we parallel parked and eagerly hopped out of the truck.

The mini parking area with the trailhead just visible across the road to the left.

Look for this.  It subtly marks the beginning/end of the trail.

Fly being silly in the fireweed.

This trail is enjoyable because the scenery changes in sections.  First it is wide with grasses, then deep with birch trees, then rocky with scrub bushes that allow views of the river and mountains, then, finally thick with alders and willows.  We did not complete the entire trail, only half of it, so I cannot currently write about the half on the Sutton side - a future post, perhaps this winter.

It starts out looking like this.

Then this.

Then this.

Then this.

Then this.

Annnnd this.

We enjoyed spotting the old rails along the ground, or elevated on the bank beside us – it was like a game of hide and seek.  I kept imagining what it must have looked like when the rails were in use: probably the trees were clear-cut, the mighty Matanuska river in full view of the rumbling trains that carried coal and other necessary supplies into Interior Alaska.  I’m sure it was glorious.

Spawning salmon splashed in the veins of the river that ran parallel to and below us.  Their sudden flaps and flops and bursts of energy were merry water sounds that coordinated well with the surrounding woodland.

  

Rockslides were a technical obstacle and there were several places where the trail was wiped out of existence and we had to cautiously pick our way across the slide, being careful to not disturb the unstable ground too much, which would have resulted in us tumbling down the embankment together with a cascade of boulders and gravel.

Finally, after three miles we arrived at our destination: a rusty train car that was just off the path and safe enough to explore.  There had been others along the way, but they were in more dilapidated conditions than this one and were either clinging to the slope or partially submerged in the murky silt water at the bottom of the bank.

Fly was initially cautious, but after a few inquisitive sniffs, she hopped into the overturned hulk and made her way through the darkened interior of the passenger car.

Before I could stop her, she reached the dead end of the car and leapt up through the glassless window and onto the top (actually the side) of the structure.  She isn’t afraid of heights, I’ll tell you that.  Our brave heroine then proceeded to thoroughly investigate the car from all angles.

The forest is slowly reclaiming its space and is encasing the historical prize in a leafy cocoon; moss and lichen adorn the time-weathered steel.  A hush blanketed the area as we explored the vintage piece – the quietness punctuated only by my fretful calls for Fly to be careful and the impudent chatter of a nearby squirrel.  It was a bit somber there, the gravesite of a forgotten era, so we did not spend too much time disturbing the scene.

Those splashing salmon were too much of a draw for us to walk past them during our return, so we chose a rockslide area to maneuver our way down to the riverbed.  The sun was warm here on the open rocky expanse and we thoroughly enjoyed walking downstream alone the bank while Fly waded into the cool water and caught salmon. 

It was one of those wonderful late summer days that Alaskans hold so dear and the afternoon stretched into evening before we climbed back up onto the secluded trail and headed for home. 

This walk is everything a person needs to avoid the crowds, feel like a local, and tour Alaska’s secret garden.