Hypothermia on the Chilkoot

This week’s extreme temperatures had most of the nation under seige. Fears of frostbite and hypothermia were very real and hearing the word “hypothermia” took me to another season and time when winter temperatures weren’t necessary to be affected by hypothermia.

It was summer in southeast Alaska, so the nights were cold and the days were absolute perfection–as long as lots of sunshine isn’t mandatory for your mental health. Three days in a row were the most I saw the sun shine over the three months I made it my home.

I had just spent three months of an environmental education internship in northern Minnesota and decided to travel with backpack to Alaska, since my longtime boyfriend (later husband) was there. I traveled by train through Canada and its awesome Rockies, caught a ferry in Prince Rupert, B.C. and finally landed at Petersburg, AK. I had no job or place to live, but was long on courage and had a passion for adventure. Apparently, that was all that was necessary. Jim always described me as “ten foot tall and bulletproof”.

Jim had worked seasonally for the U.S. Forest Service three years and was in town about every two weeks before heading out to the field again. I couldn’t stay in government housing, so a friend offered for us to stay on his small yacht the three days until we took a ferry to Skagway to begin our trek along the historic Chilkoot Trail. Sleeping on the beautifully-crafted 40 ft. monk style ‘30s era yacht was an unexpected delight. What an introduction to one of the most beautiful states in our country!

This very famous photo of the Chilkoot Pass shows prospectors rushing to find gold that was struck in a tributary of the Klondike River in 1896. A law was put into effect that no one could enter Canada along this trail without a year’s worth of supplies and food, because the conditions were so harsh. I was in southeast Alaska less than a week when I hiked the historic trail.

Fortunately, it was summer, and we did not have to carry more than a few days worth of gear. Jim had previously hiked the trail from Alaska to British Colombia the year before, so we did it together this time, backward in a sense, from Lake Bennett to Dyea.  As we began the 33 mile trek, I immediately began learning the flora, which was a passion of mine. Having just spent May through August in northern Minnesota, a lot of the plants were similar. The first night, while still in the tree line, we shared a cabin with other hikers. They were moving in the opposite direction of us, at daylight the next morning. The excitement was thick among all of us, as we left the last bit of civilization we would see for a few days.

By the time we found a spot to camp the second night, it was out of sheer necessity. We had walked all day in a drizzle, so I had my rain gear covering my shorts and t-shirt. Although it was about 40 degrees Fahrenheit, the wind was blowing hard, and I was sweating inside my poorly vented rain gear. Unbeknownst to me, I began getting very deliberate with my movements, started shivering, and slurring my speech. Fortunately, Jim recognized my symptoms of hypothermia, and we stopped at the nearest spot to camp, which happened to be on top of a narrow ridge covered in loose rock, with very little soil. It was a horrible place to camp. There was no protection from the whipping wind, but he made camp as quickly as possible, setting up the tent, getting me out of my wet clothes and into a sleeping bag, and making hot soup. I couldn’t even unzip my jacket. My fingers would not, could not, do what my brain was quietly telling them to do. If I had been alone, I would have been in big trouble. Jim had to bring the cup of soup to my lips and cradle me inside the sleeping bags until I was able to fall asleep. I felt no terror–probably because he was taking care of me, but more likely because my brain was beginning to shut down. I was totally comfortable and thinking it really wasn’t such a bad way to go, if it was my time–very peaceful and calm.

Fortunately, I awoke the next morning with restored energy and was able to put in another long day of hiking, including going down the loose scree on the Alaska side of the Chilkoot Pass. All along the way, we passed remnants of days gone by: a cache of canoes, various tools, antique trash. Things once important to the prospectors who had risked their lives for fortunes. Things that became less important and were dumped along the trail as the quest changed from one of fortune to survival.

This day brought yet another near-death adventure for me, but it was one I had to rescue myself from. Jim is 6’ 3” and has huge strides. I am 5’2” and take about two steps to his one. Therefore, him being a hundred yards ahead of me was nothing unusual. As he was maneuvering through loose scree on the steep decline, he turned to hear me yelling at him from above. The pass was actually a maze of large boulders strewn across the near vertical pass, and I had lost footing on loose rock. My backpack lodged on a boulder behind me. I was hanging from my backpack with nothing else touching anything solid. My feet were dangling. All my weight was pressing backward into my pack and I wasn’t going anywhere. Jim was a long way away from me, and it was going to take him a while to walk back up the incline of precarious rock to help me. I squirmed cautiously, afraid I would I release my pack from the boulder and send myself spiraling down the mountainside. I couldn’t unhook my pack belt, because the same thing would happen. I was not a Christian that day, but I’m pretty sure I whole-heartedly prayed as I talked aloud to myself. After several unsuccessful minutes, with adrenaline pumping, I was somehow able to twist my body around just enough to grab another rock behind me and push myself up enough to unhitch the pack from the boulder. It was both exhausting and terrifying, but I was so relieved I was not going to die on that trail that day, I wanted to run down the mountain scree. I no longer cared about nor felt the wear and tear on my knees as they continued to take the full brunt of my weight and that of my 40-pound backpack, with each downward step. One more night on the Chilkoot Trail and I had done something most people in this world will never experience: face death twice in two days and live to tell about it. Sweet success!

So no, it doesn’t have to be a snow-laden day registering below freezing to die of hypothermia. I still didn’t give God credit for keeping me alive on that trip. It was going to take another mountain top experience that was much less eventful before I would come face to face with God.