One man’s wilderness (42 page)

Where would I head today to celebrate finding the axe? Up the Hope Creek cut and into the high basin at the foot of the glaciers? That is always an adventure. One way in, and you can’t see out except at the lower end. It makes me think of the mountain hideout of the “Hole-in-the-Wall” gang. You go up across the rock slides where the little pikas squeak and leave their piles of grasses and wild pea vines to cure in the sun. Then that long look down at Hope Creek, its blue water a-sparkle, showing white here and there in its dash from the snow over the boulders.

Or how about the back slope of Crag Mountain and a visit to the hoary marmot colony? They are always interesting to watch, and to listen to their loud whistles. They’re wary, always on the alert, as big as a fat Iowa woodchuck, with fur a beautiful silver white underneath and black tips on the hairs.

Or maybe across the lake and over the top of Falls Mountain? The lookout that covers the high valley of the many waterfalls—that would be a place to visit today, like going to a great outdoor theater with me the only human in the audience and the show continuous.

I would take the binoculars and spotting scope and leave the camera gear at home. My eyes paused at the rifle on the wall but I decided against it, too. I was headed for the country of big distances because I was in a spectator mood and did not want to be overloaded. It was the kind of day to go up high. It was very buggy at lake level though, and I would need headnet and gloves until I got above the insect pests.

Across the calm lake I paddled, through thousands of flying insects on the water. None were flying that I could see, and I wondered why they had to make forced landings? Many circles from rising fish. A fly fisherman would be kept busy, but no fish for me today. They are always here and I could take them when I needed them.

The Cowgill’s bench shows off its autumn wardrobe
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Dick found these white boulders, perfectly mated, at Glacier Creek. Weighing about 40 pounds each, they set off the lakeshore entrance of his gravel path, one on either side of it. He christened them “Grizzly Eggs.” Notice the weathered caribou rack. No need to mow the lawn
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(Clockwise top two rows). The bear paused during his blueberry feast to test the wind. Highbush cranberries for pancake syrup. One shot opened and closed the hunting season on a full curl ram. The potatoes broke no size records, but they were smooth-skinned. Fresh-picked blueberries to the brim
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Blueberry foraging. Notice the connecting stream (upper left) that exits into the lower lake. The puddle-still lake reflects all images
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(Clockwise from top left). A huge-racked caribou swims to evade an enemy. Green onions promise flavoring. A porcupine bristles his quills. The burbot looks like an eel mixed up with a codfish. It’s ugly, but it has firm white flesh
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Cabin windows glowing with lamplight beneath ice-glistening slopes. There is a hint of the aurora in the frosty stillness
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