An Expedition Across the Juneau Icefield

Allen Throop

Corvallis Gazette Times, 2001

Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty steps. Stop and get out the compass. Check the bearing for 173^o. Shift my skis about 15^o to the left to line up with the compass. One, two, three…. With no visibility and only ski paces to count, I had plenty of time to reflect on what I was doing in a whiteout, on a glacier, farther from civilization than ever been before in my life. I thought back 18 months when a friend asked me if I was interested in skiing across the Juneau Icefield. My two very quick reactions were: 1) This idea sounds preposterous. 2) Of course I want to go. Now that I was on the ice, I had to prove that I was up to the challenges of the trip.

After getting the call, I started studying maps, books, and websites. The Juneau Icefield, which straddles the Alaska-British Columbia border between Skagway and Juneau, is about 45 miles east to west and 100 miles north to south. Our plan was to take up to 18 days with no outside help to hike out of Skagway, ski the length of the icefield, and hike into Juneau. Gradually I came to recognize that these glaciers are not full of ice falls and crevasses like the relatively small glaciers of the Oregon Cascades. They are large, very deep, slowly flowing rivers of ice with mostly smooth, snow-covered surfaces. The Juneau Icefield Research Project, based at the University of Idaho, has been safely taking high school and college students up onto the icefield for about 50 years. Our group, with more experience, should be able to make an unassisted crossing.

Our party consisted of four people. Keith Daellenbach, a West Albany High graduate and current Portland resident conceived of the trip while working on the Research Project in 1988 and 1991. After honing his climbing skills on numerous climbs in North America, South America and Switzerland Keith was a well-qualified trip leader. Chuck Daellenbach, Keith’s father, has lived in North Albany for years and took up climbing when Keith became interested in the sport during his high school days. Watching this son and father team work together was a real pleasure. John Parsons, from Boulder Colorado, brought to the group extensive climbing experience, much of it on big walls, that is multi-day climbs to ascend a single rock face. My strongest qualification was that I said yes when asked.

Logistical support came from Lon Carlson of North Albany who did extensive computer work to give us the Global Positioning System (GPS) information that would turn out to be invaluable to the success of the trip. Both the Mazamas, a Portland-based hiking and climbing organization, and the American Alpine Club, a similar national group, felt the expedition’s objectives were unusual enough to give us financial grants.

The trip can be divided into 3 phases: Getting up to the icefield. Crossing the icefield. Getting back down to sea level at the end of the trip.

We flew out of Portland on May 25^th, spent a night in Juneau, and then caught a ferry to Skagway where we found a small hostel for our final night in civilization. After a large café breakfast and helping each other struggle into our 80 pound packs, the group walked across the White Pass and Yukon Railroad tracks and started climbing the 3100 feet to Upper Dewey Lake. The trail was steep and rough. About half way up we hit snow almost hard enough to hold us, but which usually collapsed just before our full weight was on the snow. Within two miles, my boots were completely soaked; they would not dry out for the rest of the trip. We were exhausted when we found a cabin by the lake 3 miles, but many hours, up the trail from Skagway.

The cabin offered a final chance for us to rearrange the gear in our packs. Eighteen days of food and all other necessities are heavy. We could spread all our equipment and food out and repack, but nothing except days of eating our supplies would make the packs lighter. The fog, which had become thick as we climbed up the hill, gradually rose so we could see large peaks covered with avalanches to the south of us. During the middle of the night a martin came through the open door looking for a meal.

Day two was the day of changes: skis on for snow, skis off for walking, skis on, skis off for a scramble over large rocks, skis on, etc. The day ended with camp on a snow bank at the top of a steep, a very steep snowfield that we climbed by stepping into the footprints Keith had carefully kicked into the snow for us. Nesting ptarmigan around us that evening sounded like frogs. Day Three got us onto our first glacier and up to the dog camp.

About 200 sled dogs welcomed us to their summer home. They spend their days hauling cruise-ship tourists on two-mile dog sled trips. We had been watching the helicopters fly the patrons up to the ice for the last two days. The mushers, quick to distinguish us from the cruise ship tourists, warmly welcomed us and then supplied us with food, water, and lots of opinions about how to get over the next ridge – a feat that none of them had accomplished. After leaving the dog camp, we quickly found ourselves in a whiteout as we skied a few miles to our camp.

The fog lifted by morning and we skied to the base of the ridge. After careful study, Keith showed his leadership skills. The combination of avalanche danger, serious rock-climbing and deeply crevassed glaciers that lay in front of us was more than we were prepared for. His thirteen-year dream of doing the entire trip without outside help could not be realized without seriously compromising the safety of the group. One call with our satellite phone, brought along for situations like this, was sufficient to get a helicopter up from the dog camp to fly us a few miles over the incredibly rugged terrain.

After we got over the excitement of the airlift, we looked around at what would be our setting for the next ten days. We stood on a glacier that was over two miles wide and was bounded by stark rocky peaks rising thousands of feet above the level of the glacier. The landforms reminded me of the basin and range country of southeast Oregon. But instead of broad grassy valley floors, we had an almost smooth snowy surface. Instead of tree-covered hillsides we saw high rocky peaks devoid of vegetation and covered with unnamed glaciers. The stark landscape was reminiscent of what the Wallowa Mountains must have looked like during the Pleistocene.

Life is definitely limited on the icefield. No trees, no grass, no birds, nothing except snow fleas and the occasional unidentified insect. We were fortunate enough to see occasional wolverine tracks and, once, a wolverine crossing a snowfield high above us.

Our daily routine on the glacier did not vary much. We would take turns breaking a trail through the generally slushy spring snow. Every hour or so we would stop for a drink and a snack and to determine our route for the next hour. This would continue for six to eight hours. When stopping for the evening, everyone would stomp a flat compacted spot in the snow for the tents and the cooking area. Then the tents went up and a trench would appear giving us a place to sit for dinner. Dinners, like all other meals, were simple but time-consuming since all of our water had to be melted on our two backpacking stoves. After dinner, the coolness of the evening generally forced us into our tents before 8 p.m. After writing our notes for the day and reviewing to next day’s route, we would chat for awhile and soon fall asleep. The sun set at 10 p.m. and returned about 4 a.m., but night never really came; we had only a period that was less light.

Somewhere between 8 and 10 a.m. we would be off again. Our lives seemed to be full of mixed blessings. If the day was clear, we would soon be hot and stripped down to long underwear and hiking shorts. When the clouds came in, we quickly drew heavier clothing out of the packs. Clear days brought great views but lots of sweating while skiing. Foggy days brought relief from the sun but the need for constant navigation by compass and GPS. On the few occasions when we could not avoid skiing near crevasses, we roped together and proceeded cautiously. Skiing up steep slopes in soft snow was painfully slow; skiing down over miles of firm snow was ecstasy.

Our route alternated between areas where the glacier was four miles wide and we could wander anywhere down the middle to narrow passes that we could not afford to miss. We were fortunate to get good days when we needed visibility to cross the passes or to navigate through crevasse fields. We relied on a good GPS unit, good maps, and good compass work on the foggy whiteout days when, five feet in front of his skis, the leader could make no distinction between sky and snow.

Without a GPS unit we could not have traveled during the foggy whiteouts. With no peaks or even shadows visual navigation was impossible. The GPS was always available to give us a bearing to the next pre-programmed checkpoint on the ice. Skiing a straight line seemed to be impossible. When I was taking my turn breaking trail, I would get a compass bearing and set off. Within a few steps, I would start to wander off to the right, as did both Daellenbachs. John always veered left.

The final part of the trip, skiing to the edge of the snow and then hiking back to Juneau, we thought would be relatively easy. Skiing off the Lemon Creek and Ptarmigan glaciers did go well but the hike was far from easy. We forged a new route that I hope others will not follow. Over parts of two days, we clambered down very steep snowfields, and then through alder thickets on equally steep terrain. We were glad to have the alders to hold onto but we cursed them because our skis, which were now sticking above our backpacks, frequently got caught in the dense branches. More than once as I climbed slowly down the hillside others had to tell me where to place my next foot to prevent a long slide downhill or a short fall into a rushing cold river. Finding the Lemon Creek trail was certainly the highlight of the last day. We thought that the walk from there would be short and easy but the wilderness was not about to give up on us. The trail condition was never close to what we expect in the Cascades and rugged detours caused by blowdowns and river erosion were a constant problem.

The smiles and hugs were genuine when, at about 5 p.m. on June 10, we reached a paved road in Juneau to end our on 130 mile trek from Skagway. The hot shower and dry clothes a few hours later were wonderful.

During and after the trip I kept trying to sort out what the expereince means to me. I am still struggling with the answer to that question. I certainly know much more about glaciers, glacial travel, and my own capabilities. I was expecting to feel a sense of wilderness in that vast land with no contact with others for most of our trip.

However, rather than a feeling of aloneness, I was continually struck by a feeling of dependence both on my party members and on products of our society. The group was entirely dependent upon each other. For two weeks, we were within twenty feet of each other in camp and usually in the leader’s track while on the trail. Whether we were skiing or in our tents, a comment made by one member was overheard by everyone else. We shared everything and gave help without being asked. One day I might need help on a steep hillside; the next day I might stop someone else’s pack from sliding down a long snow bank. The intensity of the relationships is one that rarely occurs in city life. Although we had our differences of opinion, we came out a close-knit group.

I also found a feeling of dependence on society rather than the independence I had expected. The main reminders of the outside world were the sight of airplane contrails high overhead and the noise of helicopters taking tourists on glacier tours. Our survival was no less dependent upon fossil fuels than was theirs. The success of our trip was based on the gallons of Coleman fuel that we carried in our packs. In addition, modern products such as Gore-Tex, Polarfleece, and other synthetic, hi-tech fabrics, and lightweight titanium pots that may well have come through the metal smelters in Albany made the trip much easier than it would have been even 20 years ago. Despite the vastness of the Juneau Icefield, I came away with a feeling that our planet is small and fragile and that we have a real obligation to take care of it.

During the evening, Keith enjoyed reading poetry to us. Skagway was founded as a gateway to the Yukon gold rush of 1898 and today, the ballads of Robert Service, which celebrate the gold-rush days, are everywhere. Service puts great emphasis on survival of the fittest: only the strong shall thrive…. only the fit survive. . After spending two weeks crossing the Juneau Icefield, I came away with the more humble attitude expressed by the Australian bush balladeer Banjo Patterson who says: The man who holds his own is good enough. The fact that I was good enough will give me comfort and great memories for a long time.