Tsogo heading to the Ghengis homeland

It is said that Genghis Khan was born grasping a blood clot in his fist.  In Mongolian lore, this is rumored to portend exceptional leadership potential.  Taking the cue, the great Khan ran with it, and founded the greatest empire the world has ever known, before or since.  According to ‘The Secret History of the Mongols’, Genghis died around 1227, though there are various accounts of exactly how that took place.  According to custom, in respect to his station in life, he was buried in a location likely near his birthplace.  It would have been in an unmarked tomb, replete with oodles of precious items and maybe even a sacrificial person or two to keep him company for the long term.  One of the world’s great unsolved mysteries is in fact exactly where he was laid to rest.  Not to be easily determined; partly because great efforts were made to cover the evidence.  It also didn’t hurt that most everyone associated with his final passage were said to have been promptly dispatched of to ensure their continued silence on the matter.

I pondered these and other thoughts as our party rode into the heart of the Khan Khentii Strictly Prohibited Area in Northern Mongolia.  We were headed for the remote upper reaches of the Yestii River, which coincidentally is one of several possible locations of the beginning and end of Genghis Kahn’s career.  I’ve always been a sucker for people who ‘get stuff done,’ but you really had to hand it to Genghis. ‘That must have taken a lot of energy,’ I thought.

Our own plans were a bit more modest.  Not having much time to plan my trip to Mongolia beyond ‘paddle something’, I had relied on Ernst von Waldenfels from Mongolia Canoeing to lay out some options.  When he suggested horse packing into an exploratory with a young Mongolian partner (who had no significant paddling experience), I bit like a pit bull.  The plan, as it evolved, was to pack into the Yestii with Banzragch and some horsemen, put together the folding canoe, then run the river to where it joined with the Chuluut River.  At that point, we would join up with Ernst and some of his Australian clients on their commercial trip, and we would continue on together into the Yeroo River and beyond.  Ernst’s friend Daka, from Happy Mongolia, would arrange for the horsemen.  At least one of them had been to the upper Yestii before, and they were all pretty pumped up to go there.  Banzragch was working on his English.  They said he could swim, which apparently is a rarity in these parts.  There was no way to ascertain the water levels ahead of time, but supposedly it had ‘been raining in June.’

‘This is going to be awesome,’ I thought.  ‘What could possibly go wrong?’  Well…

When I look back on it all, a compendium of events and emotions flash across my conscious.  This is how I remember my journeys; as a small subset of the total experience.  I’m not sure why that is – perhaps I just don’t have room for more.  In the long term, they become the essence of ‘the trip’, because that’s all that’s left in the end.  I would guess that anyone who ‘expeditions’ into the outdoors probably has similar recollections, in the same jumbled manner.  It becomes the essence of what they take from their experience, and forms the basis of whatever lessons they may have learned.  It becomes ‘their story.’

This is mine…

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• The more difficult it gets, the more Bata enjoys it.  Come to think of it, it almost seems like the horses felt the same way.  Stuck in mud up to their chests, loaded down with gear, they never gave up.  They just powered through it and stood there dripping, ready for more.  They, too, were ‘on an adventure.’

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There were times when I’m guessing Ernst was questioning the merit of leading trips into some of the more challenging locales of Mongolia; especially while repeatedly abusing his body as he led his troupe onwards.  He came to appreciate my stash of Ibuprofen.  Despite it all, I could sense in the end he craved the challenge.  He got it.  His final message to me:  ‘It was a fantastic journey.  And you are right; it is exactly the kind of journey that I love (although I might be getting a bit old.)  Would love to hear your stories again in the dripping rain.’

As for me, I spent quite a bit of time stumbling and bumbling down the river, dancing at the behest of the hornets, or impaling myself on yet another protruding stick.  The rain ran down my glasses once right at the top of a rapid, and I couldn’t see with them or without them as we dropped down into the fray.  That was nice.  Challenge is all relative, and I’ve learned it doesn’t take as much to ring the bells as I get older.  On more than one occasion, like the time I found myself doing the James Brown splits trying to keep control of the canoe and not get swept into the drink,  I thought to myself, ‘maybe next vacation I should do something a bit more laid back.’  In fact, it became a recurring theme.  This trip was taking a ‘lot of energy.’

Then came the day when the rapids finally receded, and we had two glorious days floating through pristine landscapes; in Mongolia.  The sun came out, the birds sang, and every stroke was a joy.  You could feel the sense of pride welling up, of what we had done and experienced together as a team.

And it was at that moment, during that final passage, that I felt it once again; the ember of desire to explore – to see what is around the next bend, no matter the physical price to be paid to make it so.  Each in our own way, we have that; the burning fire to try something new; to test ourselves and our team.  Without it, our lives are less full and perhaps less rewarding.  This is my story, and your story, too.

I imagine that someday, maybe soon, we will no longer be able to force ourselves down a riverbed or over a hill, regardless of how many young, strong partners there are in tow.  We’ll no longer be able to make the key ferry, portage the giant pack across the swamp, or actually be more help than hindrance to our partners.  Never again will we have the feeling of drifting down the paradisiacal outflow at the end of yet another ill-advised run and attendant physical punishment that came with it.  In short, we’ll be all done, and our fire will have burned out.

Yes, there is no doubt that at some point that time will come…

Just not quite yet.

RiverRocks is a fun-filled, family-friendly, environmentally-conscious event that celebrates the Tennessee Valley’s incomparable natural resources, the health benefits of an active, outdoor lifestyle and Chattanooga’s commitment to environmental stewardship and land conservation.

From rock climbing and trail running to kayaking and rowing, cycling and off-road biking, hiking and hang gliding, there is something for everyone, expert and novice participants of all ages. This 10-day event based in Chattanooga will also feature live music, hot air balloons, river cruises and more in the area’s mountains, rivers and forests of the Tennessee Valley’s unsurpassed parks and conservancies.

RiverRocks also supports the conservancies and land trusts protecting the area with the goal to redistribute 50¢ of every dollar collected by RiverRocks to non-profit trusts and conservancies in the Tennessee Valley.

For a event details, a calendar of the week, and all the information you need to participate in a new or favorite activity, go to www.riverrockschattanooga.com. We’ll be there all week so, be sure to swing by the Outdoor Research booth as well to say hello and enter to win new gear!

It was night out, and I walked with the guard through the wired gates in the yard under the yellow glare of the lights to reach the austere auditorium. It was there, in a sparse room with plastic chairs, the inmates, including my friend, came to see me speak of an ‘adventure.’ At least that’s how it started out. Before long, however, it evolved into everyone talking about their own dreams – of things they hoped to do someday. And guess what; no one wanted to climb a mountain or explore a canyon. They wanted to run a marathon, to talk to their brother again, to ride a motorcycle across America. They wanted to do these things not just a little, but a lot. I envied them that.

After two hours, a voice from a balcony above us informed everyone it was time to head back to our respective homes. So many people coming up, hands outstretched, thanking me. And later, from the inmates and the guards: “I especially appreciated the connection you made with your audience.” “The men truly appreciated your taking the time to come and speak. I have heard many comments already this morning from the men.” The experience went from one of trepidation and minor inconvenience to high gratification.

Since then, I’ve contemplated what makes us feel that way – rewarded. Is it just plain having fun? Or is it having dreams, and acting on them for better or worse? For many years, I’ve voted ‘yes’ to the vision quest thing. I would guess that many others would as well. A less obvious question is what is the kernel of our dreams? Or do we just come up with this stuff out of nowhere?

It seems so often, it is actually the actions of others that are in fact the roots of our dreams. By dint of their life work, their mannerisms and style, or some pinnacle of achievement, they lead us on. We may think, for example, it was our hearing about an unclimbed ascent that first ignited a flame, but was it really just our awareness that others have climbed such peaks that laid the foundation of our hopes and goals?

Packrafting the Aniakchak

When I review my own list of those I most admire, or have been inspired by, it’s all over the map: Sally Ride for exploring space and other uncharted territory; my grandfather for his consistent humility and appreciation of simple things; my parents for always placing our needs ahead of theirs. Being an outdoors-sort, of course there is a long list of explorers and ‘adventurers’, especially from days-gone-by. They have all shaped and motivated my goals and perspectives, and have made my life richer than it would have been otherwise.

Imagine living a life that is not only fun, but rewarding. After all, fun is transitory, but gratification endures. Fun is great, but how can we all get some of that other stuff? Consider that certainly one of the most satisfying rewards is the knowledge that you have inspired others to chase their dreams… What then is the secret sauce that would make that happen? Is it some particular action? Is there some sure-fire pattern of behavior or scale of achievement that consistently resonates with others?

I don’t have the answer to that, but I do know one thing: For my part, the people who most inspired me weren’t trying to.

This summer, Harry and a friend will be paddling through little-explored waters of Mongolia. With plans as tightly dialed as possible, there are still many “unexpected’s” to come; maps are unreliable and resources limited. Keep an eye out for a report from Harry on the expedition and his discoveries when he returns in August.

In its first year, and at a brand new park on Alki, the Northwest Paddling Festival, Saturday and Sunday, June 25-26, promises to be the region’s highlight paddling event. Sea kayak and SUP demos, on-water and classroom clinics and demos, the Alki Paddling Challenge Race, music, food, gear vendors, and the Coffee Lounge (with yours truly, Outdoor Research) round out this weekend of fun.

Head over to West Seattle for the opening weekend of Jack Block Park on Alki, celebrate our region’s water playgrounds and paddling community!  We’ll see you there!

Be sure to stop by the Outdoor Research booth and coffee lounge for a cup of java and to check out our newest paddling gear.

Saturday, June 25th, 9am-6pm
Sunday, June 26th, 9am – 5pm
Jack Block Park, 2130 Harbor Ave SW

For all the details, go to www.northwestpaddlingfestival.com

Beautiful Cape Flattery. Photo: Bryan Smith

The ocean is a beautifully rhythmic place.  Paddling amongst towering rocks in booming swell illustrates this like nothing else can.  Feeling this rhythm and reading the water is critical and often the determining factor for success when rock gardening in big swell.  Will I clear that narrow slot before the next one hits? Or, if I hesitate, will I end up mercilessly grated over barnacle covered rocks? Should I pull my guts out and sprint for it? Or, should I hold position and wait for the next set?  Normally, this decision is purely personal; the timing is all your own as a paddler, it’s between you and the sea.

But, its not always the case when you’re looking to produce quality catalog images on time and under budget. This shoot has been months in the making. Despite setbacks and bad weather, we are finally all here together as a team sporting the freshest gear. The sponsors put up the cash and are counting on us to bring home the goods. The light is magic. The rest of the capable team is strong and watching my back. The photographer is in position as I hear his voice crackle over the vhf radio. “We are… set”…”GO for it!” I see his hand raised high overhead. He’s ready. Is the timing right? Will this be the shot?

I enjoy the considerable challenge of capturing images as a team while out paddling together. Sharing a part of the amazing places that we experience while kayaking adds an element of purpose to our day on the water. No longer are we just messing about in boats…we’re on a mission!

Our latest mission took us west the tip of the Olympic Peninsula, Cape Flattery. The goal; capture some of the best rough water sea kayaking images to date, for Outdoor Research. The team consisted of Matt Nelson, Djuna Mascall, Richard Davis, and myself with Bryan Smith on cameras. We only had a couple days to get the goods, so we loaded up our boats for an overnight and got right to work. We knew the rocks near Shi Shi beach (South of the Cape) would provide reasonable protection and some great rock gardens to play in. With 6-8 foot swell predicted, we knew we could get some exciting shots, the real challenge would be getting good angles on the action. There aren’t too many easy vantage points to use in the middle of the ocean. Bryan brought his water-proof housing and hoped for the best. After shooting a few frames at water level it became clear; to get what we had all envisioned, to really nail the shot; we would need to get Bryan out of his boat and onto the rocks.

I say “we” because this was no easy task and often involved a team effort. The photographer doesn’t have the luxury of paddling a nice light empty boat. Bryan brought his new P&H Delphin. It’s a plastic sea kayak build to take abuse from rocks like these. His boat was full of heavy camera gear and supplies.  First we would find a feature or location that had potential to give us a sweet shot. The team would check it out and look for hazards and work out positions of usefulness should the worst happen, while Bryan searched for the ideal vantage point. Usually, this involved scanning the tops of the surrounding sea stacks looking for one that provided the right angle and backdrop. Once the rock was selected we determined the route to the top, if there is a stash spot for a boat, and if Bryan could even get out onto the rock’s base in the first place.

Then came the real challenge. As swell comes rolling through the huge sea stacks it first lifts your boat up like an elevator gone mad, then drops you back down fast enough to put your stomach in your throat.  Depending on the shape of the rock, as well as the size and direction of the swell, this often means raising and falling 5, 10, or even 25 feet with each wave. The key to landing your boat and getting out in these conditions is TIMING. Swimming up to the rocks and pulling your boat in after is sometimes an option, but Bryan was fully loaded with camera gear (including in his cockpit) and the rocks were so steep that paddling his boat up onto rocky shelves was the only real option. Once the team was in position it was all up to Bryan to make the move. He would watch the waves as they came in one after the other.  He looks for that perfect wave to lift him up and set him on the rocks then recede back giving him time to pop his spray deck and get out before the next wave finishes him off. No easy task, but one that was complete successfully many times.

Once Bryan was in place, we would communicate with vhf radio to coordinate the team’s efforts. Taking turns at each feature, we would cycle through the whole group several times. While one of us was in the zone the rest would take up support positions. Often, we would put ourselves in front of huge blow holes, or in a turbulent slot cave that would explode with action when the biggest waves set up. You never knew what it would be like when it was your turn. Having a solid crew meant that we could really push it.

Being prepared with overnight gear meant that we didn’t have to travel far from the action to set camp.  With the first successful day of shooting behind us we re-charged and prepared for day two. When we woke the next morning, we were faced with a tough surf launch. The swell had picked up and the period had narrowed. We shot some boat loading on the beach and waited for the surf to sit down a bit.  It never did.  After some exciting close calls the team gathered up beyond the break and started back North towards the Cape.

On the paddle home, a sense of accomplishment was detectable by all. Not only had we experienced a place together that many only imagine, but we nailed the shots too! We had felt the rhythm. The sea was kind to us this time. The mission was a success!!

Paul’s stories of paddling can be found on his blog, Boat with Paul and here on VertiCulture.

Hey paddlers, come out and paddle with Outdoor Research for 4 days beginning on August 15th.

The 4 day paddle is put on by the Willamette Riverkeepers and will feature four days of great paddling, great catered meals, outstanding beer and wine, nightly entertainment and speakers.  Camping will feature amenities to ensure a comfortable camping experience.

This will be a great event for paddlers of all ability levels.  For more information, registration, directions and more check out the Paddle Oregon site.

“GGSKS is a skills symposium that aims to deliver a fun and exciting weekend of sea kayaking in one of the most spectacular and dynamic locations in the world — the Marin Headlands and San Francisco Bay.   The event is dedicated to the sheer joy of paddling well and paddling safe.  The goal is to address paddling for the pure fun of it.”

“Spring tides and powerful Pacific swells will ensure challenging conditions for even the most seasoned paddlers.  The area has beautiful surf, rock gardens, tide races, flatwater, challenging navigation and more.  Not to mention that all around you are Mt. Tam, the Marin Headlands, the Golden Gate Bridge, the San Francisco Skyline, Berkeley, Alcatraz, Angel Island, the Bay Bridge and more…”

By day, students enjoyed a wide variety of classes, trainings, and assessments to fine tune their technique on everything from rolling, stroke refinement classes, advanced rock gardening and rescue classes from many of the best coaches in the world. The fun kept rollin’ as they enjoyed movies, Greenland rope demonstrations, slide shows and live music back at the hostel by night.

The success of these types of events is a good sign for sea kayaking in the West. It seems skill levels are rising and people are hungry for more.

For me, the best part of any symposium happens just following the event.  It’s an “after party” opportunity to kick back and enjoy the ocean purely for the fun of it. Without students to look out after, the coaches really let loose and go big.

As we reluctantly drug our heels North back to the cold wet Pacific NW, we were sure to stop to enjoy a couple more days of sunshine along the Mendocino Coast where Jeff Laxier of www.liquidfusionkayak.com showed us around his “backyard.”

For a recap on the event, check out Paul’s blog and the GGSKS website.

Wondering if this is the right spot

I spent a lot of my childhood in Orange County. Many weekends were spent at Wild Rivers, the local water park. I’d head straight for a wave pool called Monsoon Lagoon, and would make my way through all of the people to the very front of the pool where I’d spend the entire day on a boogie board in front of the wave machine. I can still hear the noise that the machine would make as it generated wave after wave. Every wave was the same size, had the same interval and the same amount of power behind it. Every two hours or so the wave machine would turn off and the water would go flat for several minutes. I remember lining myself up in the flat water waiting for the machine to kick in. When it did my heart would jump in anticipation of the waves that would follow.

In Humboldt County, California we have a surf break that forms in the middle of the Bay if conditions are right. There are three underwater sand spits in the middle of the Bay that line up nicely with the mouth of the Bay. If the swell coming in the mouth is large enough, the tide is ebbing and the tide is low enough, waves appear over the spits. In theory, the waves can be surfed from one end of the spit to the other, and then the kayaker ferries off to the side and the current carries them back to the start, where the process can be repeated. The waves will often disappear for minutes at a time and then suddenly pop up right behind you, in front of you, next to you or directly under you. The moving current, flat water and no identifiable features make it easy to lose place of where the underwater sand spits are located, and when the waves appear the adrenaline kicks in, but unlike Monsoon Lagoon, their size, shape and strength is completely unpredictable.

Moments later: Dancing water

Yesterday I was sitting in the flat waters of Humboldt Bay waiting for that surf break. I found myself thinking of something an instructor (thanks Steve) once told me. “It’s not the sea that is confused, it’s you that is confused.” How true is that? The ocean knows exactly what it is doing, people however, often don’t.

We played in the surf break for a couple of hours, riding what was rideable; forwards backwards, sideways. We punched through surf, and sat in an awesome spot where small waves come from every direction crashing into each other and shooting water high into the air. I played in this spot for awhile trying to position myself so that I’d be right in the middle of this convergence, which is relatively gentle, but there’s something really fun (and hysterical) about getting hit in the face by a poof of water from the sea.

It’s these unknown and unlikely spots where water dances that are often the most fun.

More of Helen’s kayak adventures can be found on her blog.  Pictures by Michael H. Morris and Helen Wilson.

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.

• Megi Morishita and Harry House hiking along the rim of the Aniakchak caldera. Photo:Thomas O'Keefe.

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• From the rim into the Aniakchak caldera with the 1931 cone, Surprise Lake, The Gates, Black Nose, and Vent Mountain all visible. Photo:Thomas O'Keefe.

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• Megi, Thomas, and Harry on the rim of the Aniakchak Caldera.

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• Clouds roll in over the rim of the Aniakchak caldera as a storm begins to build. Photo:Thomas O'Keefe.

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• Lupines (Lupinus nootkatensis) along Surpise Lake. Photo:Thomas O'Keefe.

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• Red fox (Vulpes vulpes) near Surprise Lake. Photo:Thomas O'Keefe.

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• Complex of wetlands at the head of Surprise Lake. Photo:Thomas O'Keefe.

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• Harry and Megi start their journey down the river from inside the Aniakchak caldera. Photo:Thomas O'Keefe

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• Megi Morishita packrafting through The Stairs on the Aniakchak. Photo:Thomas O'Keefe.

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• Harry House packrafting the Aniakchak. Photo:Thomas O'Keefe.

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• Megi Morishita packrafting the Aniakchak. Photo:Thomas O'Keefe.

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• Megi hiking through alder thickets along Albert Johnson Creek on the portage to Meshik River. Photo:Thomas O'Keefe.

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• Paddling down the Meshik where bears were actively fishing. Here you can see as we attempt to hold our position while one fishes downstream in the distance. Photo:Megi Morishita.

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• Megi getting ready to paddle down the Meshik River. Photo:Harry House.

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• Harry and Thomas getting ready to run the Meshik River. Photo:Thomas O'Keefe.

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• A daily ritual on the marsh hike to Port Heiden: wringing out socks. Photo:Thomas O'Keefe.

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• Thomas hiking across the marsh to Port Heiden. Photo:Harry House.

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• Harry House after two weeks on the trail to Port Heiden. Photo:Thomas O'Keefe.

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• Hiking to Port Heiden across the wetlands. Photo:Thomas O'Keefe.

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• Harry, Thomas, and Megi shortly after arriving back in Port Heiden.

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For 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!