A Tale of an Alaskan Wilderness Therapy Guide

“The River she’s flowing, flowing and growing. The River she’s flowing, down to the sea. Mother carry me, your child I will always be. Mother carry me, down to the sea.”

On the fourth day up Mount Shakes, on Etolin Wilderness Island, Desi and I woke our participants up with this Native American hymn. For a few minutes, the children seemed to be in high spirits. Tents were packed up in record time, backpacks loaded and ready to go, and breakfast enjoyed with smiles on their faces. It did not take long before hell broke loose.

The initial excitement of hitting snowline did not last long. Snowshoes seemed fun at first, but fighting through the misty bitter cold wind trumped everything. Participants “mother F-ed” their heavy packs, throwing them on the ground and kicking the snow. Others threatened the guides, participants, and themselves with physical violence. Toes were freezing off, and participants refused to change socks or use plastic bags to insulate their feet. Through it all, some held on to their sense of “pride” rather than accept help from others. As a guide, it was quite devastating.

After rounding up the troops, setting up base camp, and digging a snow kitchen, we took time to go sledding and enjoy the luxuries of a hot meal. As the participants retired for the night, I spoke with my fellow guides about my descent on the following morning. You see, I was called out to this program to help support them for a short week. But I was beginning another program the following week, so I was going to have to hike down the mountain in 4 hours, which took us 4 days to get up. The problem: I was never given a map, GPS, bear spray, a working radio, or a back-up plan, nor could I take the other guide’s gear. As I discussed my dilemma with my fellow guides, I realized that my best bet was to take an accurate compass bearing and pray to God to help me get down this mountain without being mauled by a bear.

I woke up with the pouring rain, packed up my gear and began dashing down the mountain.  Avoiding frozen rivers and postholes, I nimbly made it out of snow line. With no trail, I was forced to follow my bearing with accuracy as I began a quick descent down a steep mountainside. As brush began to thicken and Devil’s club began to poke through my skin, I meditated on the image of the map. There is a river that flows from the top Shakes to the ocean, where I need to be. If I could find this river, I could follow it down to the ocean.

I began singing, “The River she’s flowing, flowing and growing…” as a prayer to mother earth and a bear deterrent. There she was, absolutely gushing down the face of the mountain. A true Alaskan river: one that would certainly take your life if you were to fall into it. I approached the pristine waters and began to pick up my pace. As I reached the top of a small hill, I was greeted by a group of Elk. Massive beings of the forest, surprised of my presence, they darted deeper into the forest without hesitation. I was abruptly reminded of the piles of bear scat that I had been walking through, and continued to sing as I marched down the mountain.

The river turned. My compass was now pointing NW, and I was supposed to be traveling SE. I began to doubt the memory I had of the map, or perhaps this was a different river, or maybe it split? How could a river travel up a mountain? It did not make any sense to me, but I knew I had to get down this mountain. At this point, the end of the road was in front of me. The cliff face was too steep to scale, and the river was pointing me in the wrong direction. The only option: cross the river.

Anxiously I searched the banks of the river for a shallow spot or a place to rock hop. No way. By God’s grace, I was led up river to a fallen Red Cedar tree that spanned the entire river, perhaps 50 feet or so. I belly crawled over a fallen tree with a full pack once in Maine, but the water under the tree was only a few feet deep and not nearly gushing as quick. I started asking myself: is this a test? I quickly convinced myself that it was. Without hesitation, I hugged this massive red tree, and scurried across, repeating mantra to help me stay focused. With a sigh of relief, I reached the other side; I began to sing once again.

As the rain continued to pour, determination began to carry me. I kicked and clawed through muddy banks, used roots to haul my body up and down hills, and studied the features of the land around me, using clues to find the ocean. When all seemed hopeless, the trees broke. I saw the ocean. I made my way to the rocky shores and began to search my memory for the exact location that they boat had dropped us off. I searched the trees for any evidence that we left behind. Nothing. I knew that I was in the correct bay, but I was quickly realizing that I was on the wrong side of the river. There was no way I was crossing the river again. I checked my watch: 11:11, exactly 4 hours down the mountain. As the boat was supposed to be arriving any minute, I made the decision to find a point jetting into the massive ocean and flag down the boat driver.

An hour passed. I continued to try to call the boat driver on my busted radio. I searched my pack for food. Nothing. I sat in the pouring rain thinking about my lack of shelter, as I shared a tent on the mountain and left it with the group, and my lack of food. Luckily, water was everywhere to drink. Another hour passed. Am I in the right space? Another hour passes. It is now after 2 PM and I am quite chilly and very hungry.

The boat zoomed around the opposite corner of the bay. I watched him from a distance as the boat drove into the heart of the inlet. Excited to be dry and fed, I put on my brightest clothes and used my bright green butt pad and yellow mountaineering helmet to wave in the air. Screaming at the tops of my lungs, I yelled, waved and ran up and down the coast trying to get the boat driver’s attention. Nothing. He reached the mouth of the river, and turned around, leaving the bay the way he came from. In this moment, I knew how a castaway feels.

Luckily, he turned around again, but he did not go any further than the river. As the boat turned his jet-powered engine off, I was sure that he would be able to hear me. Nothing.  I had to make a quick decision: do I continue to try and get his attention, or do I make a break for the river and hope that he will see me there? Think Michael. Think.

Bear bangers, or glorified M80s that shoot out of a plastic orange gun. We never shot them off in training, but I had 3 of them. I loaded the first one and pointed it to my right, not knowing how it was going to behave. Bang. Boom. I was sure every animal in the forest heard the explosion of this banger, but not the boat driver. In disbelief, I loaded the second banger. I pointed to my left, pulled the trigger. Bang. Boom. Again, he did not show any signs of hearing the loud explosion. Ready to fall to my knees in exhaustion and despair, I loaded the third banger, pointed it above my head and pulled the trigger. Bang. Boom.

A small plume of smoke was formed with the third shot. The boat driver saw the plume of smoke. The engine fired up, and he effortlessly drove the boat to me. As I grabbed my pack I heard, “Why are you over here? Why didn’t you call me on your radio?”

The River Always Flows, Always Grows, Down to the Sea.