Return to Paradise
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The route for our Aniakchak-Meshik loop in July 2010. Google Earth.
One year later, we stood again on the crater’s rim, looking down into the depths of our emotions.
This time, sunlight played across the entire caldera, revealing formations and undulations we had never seen during our previous encounter. For the first time, we could see the entire majestic panorama before us; like a reward of some sort. “Welcome back”, the wind whispered. Shyly: “Did you miss us?”
“Did we miss the volcano?” I’m not sure any of us had thought of it like that. A strong desire to ‘finish the trip’ took hold within days in each of us the year before. The hard way – again. Stubborn –determined… stupid? But Miss It?
“Yes”, we replied – “we missed you.”
Down the same slope of cinders we plunged, approaching new fields of snowpack glaring back at us in the sun. As we rested at the bottom, seven caribou sashayed past while we snacked. Rising again, we headed across the landscape toward the lake. We knew the way. By evening, we were putting our camp down within two feet of where it was when the storm hit the year before. A stronger camp – tighter, but with escape routes planned, like a wildebeest at a waterhole.
At our feet, still in the ground, stuck a stake from the year before. I used it.
Our camp at the base of Vent Mountain near Surprise Lake. Photo:Thomas O'Keefe.
We spent the next three days exploring the caldera floor and features, ‘looking for gear’ as an excuse. The Park Service had found one of our sleeping bags earlier, and we stumbled onto a paddle. Not much else – except for all the geomorphic treasures hidden by space and time. “I’ve never seen something that looked like that before”, I would ponder. “Be careful where you step”, we would say to each other. “It’s bigger than I thought it would be”, I would muse. I felt like we were doing time in nature’s funhouse.
Lest we forget where we were, the volcano soon reverted to form – hitting us with wind and rain, shutting down visibility and preventing any visitors from dropping in on us from above. Outdoor Research had ensured we were prepared for it all – as long as we kept their provisions in-hand. For those days, the funhouse gave access in spurts, but protected us as well, like new friends. “See”, she said, “I can be nice when I want to be.”
As we traversed the landscape, we at times came across our path from the storm. “This is where I got picked up and blown through the air!” Megi exclaimed. “This pond looks different now – I can actually see it!” “Here’s where Tom ran for the gear.”
When we came to the ‘emergency camp’, where we had spent the night in the storm, people became quiet, unsure of what to say or do. We found a few stakes buried in the grass; took a ‘group photo’. We climbed up to the ridge where the Coast Guard had dropped in with the Jayhawk, and stood on the spot where they put down. “Other people will stand here someday,” I thought. “They may camp here, or have a snack. They will take in the view, and maybe remember it for the rest of their lives.” I looked down towards the emergency bivouac, reflecting. “But we will emotionally own this patch of ground until we die.”
It was misty and cold the day we ran the volcano.
As we slipped through the Gates and out of its embrace, the volcano shut down behind us. “Go”, she prodded us, “it’s time for you to go.” And so we did. In heavily loaded Pakrafts, we ran. We ran for closure and redemption, and a promise to the Coast Guard. We ran because we are paddlers, and that’s what we do. We ran for each other. But mostly, we ran for the sheer joy of descending a pristine river that comes out of a volcano in the middle of nowhere.
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laFor miles, the river sped through tundra and spilled over rocks and ledges without pause. I put my foot through the bottom of my raft on a sharp rock. I ran the next drop with it hanging out the bottom like the Flintstones driving in their car, up to my hips in water. No matter. Megi and Tom patched the boat, and we continued down to where the river paused the next day.
In our plans, we had hoped to complete a giant circle back to where we began, via a second river to the southwest. With some regret, we collapsed our boats and left the river behind, our last connection to the interior of the volcano. From now on, we ran under the shadow of the volcano as we wrapped around its base, but were no longer part of its hidden secrets.
Tracks at Meshik Lake. Photo:Harry House
A day later we found ourselves re-inflating our rafts next to a muddy bank, about to put in what looked like an irrigation ditch next to a lake. Three Red Salmon swirled in the stagnant water at our feet. “You know what that means”, said Tom. “Bears”, I nodded. An hour later, a side stream came in, and the ditch turned into a clear, narrow stream hurriedly winding over gravel bars and high banks. The salmon ran in thick schools from shore to shore. At every turn, we envisioned startling a sow and her cub, fish-in-mouth, not amused. We ‘sang out’ for two days running.
And bears there were; a gauntlet of them; each one behaving in their own manner. Running away, running towards us and standing to look, not running at all, but slinking back into the brush. One, having jumped out of the river at seeing us, thought better of it, jumped back in to grab a particularly nice fish in his mouth, and then hopped back up onto the bank again to watch us slide past while he dined.
The weather worsened as we descended the river towards the Bering Sea. Though we were only a few miles from the volcano, we caught only occasional glimpses of it to remind us where we were. Unsure of the wisdom of taking the rafts all the way out to the ocean and down the coast, we elected to pull off the river a few miles from the mouth and portage back to our starting point. Looking back on it, logistically, that was probably a mistake.
On the trail back to Port Heiden. Photo:Harry House
The next two days entailed a lot of swamp-walking, with occasional slivers of relatively hard ground to follow. The packs were still too heavy for conditions, the price we paid for combining a river trip with an extended backpack journey. As a friend told me once, when experiencing the consequences of a questionable course of action in the outdoors, we were “out here to get some EXERCISE!”
Two weeks after we departed, we stood again on our point of embarkation. Our bodies had paid the price. When we got back into town, we asked a helpful fellow we had met the year before if he thought we were going to make it this time. He smiled, dodged the question, and said “we were just discussing yesterday that you were about due back today…”
The next day, we boarded a plane back to Anchorage and homeward, back to our normal lives and routines. Airborne, we looked out the windows to the south, towards the volcano, but it was veiled in angry clouds, as usual. Just as well – to remember it like that. Each of us knew what lay concealed in that curtain of mist, both the physical wonders and our own memories.
We also knew we would likely never return.
In 2009, Harry, Megi, and Tom attempted to run the Aniakchak but their adventure quickly turned into an epic after their camp was destroyed in a storm that hurled 80mph winds through the crater. A dangerously cold night spent in only bivy shelters – their sleeping bags having been blown away – and a rescue by the Coast Guard quickly brought their journey to an end. Read the original story here. Congrats Harry, Megi, and Tom on a successful and slightly less epic run this summer!
