Is No Place Safe?
It was pointed out to me earlier this summer that Sukakpak Mountain is likely the most climbed mountain in the Brooks Range. I hesitantly agree with this assumption.
During a climb last September, I began thinking about the times I’ve climbed to the top of this famous mountain at the Southern rim of the central Brooks Range. For a brief moment when the sun is in the right position, the Dalton highway revels in the shadow of Sukakpak Mountain.
This behemoth piece of rock due East of the road lures many a hiker with its close proximity to the road and relative fame thanks to both older and newly emerging guide books that explain the hike something like this:
A challenging day hike, Sukakpak offers spectacular views of the Koyukuk and Bettles River valleys below.
In my life now, I’ve climbed this mountain somewhere between six and twelve times. Earlier this summer when I walked to the top and looked around at the mountains I wondered, will this be the last time for me.
It’s not that I want it to be the last time nor do I anticipate the last time while I am hiking; however, I notice subtle changes in the land that beckon me to hike elsewhere, tell fewer people about the route, talk less, be more selective, let wilderness be wild. The first time I hiked to the top, I felt elated to have made it. No obvious human trails emerged from the landscape. There were, however, skinny imprints of long used sheep trails across the top that splayed out in many directions. Today, looking back from the summit, there exists a distinct footpath in the heavily trodden soil, a footpath that screams to me:
I have been walked on before
You are not the first
This is the direction; I dare you to try another path
Inherently, we stick to the trail no matter how many times we are told not to. Even in my best efforts to stay off the trail, after several mindless minutes of climbing, I look down to see that distinct, heavily trodden path at my feet. When I look out at the Brooks Range, across the mountaintops, I see opportunities: places where no paths exist.
It is not the path to the top of the mountain that disturbed me about my climb to the top this summer. Instead, what I found at the top is really the cause for my angst and new desire to keep my hill climbs a personal and private matter. At the very top of the mountain, nestled under a pile of neatly placed rocks:
One orange, rusty, worthless lighter whose fluid had drained many months or years prior
A bar of soap, wrapper barely attached, from a bathroom at the Inn in Coldfoot Camp
A yellow, inch and a ½ shotgun shell
A plastic compass/whistle keychain combo that is very unlikely to save anyone in the wilderness
One half (or maybe a quarter) empty a power bar wrapper
A raspberry flavored gel pack, packed with calories, vitamins and minerals
Here along the highway and the pipeline, red tin cans are nestled at the top of many mountain summits. These cans contain a small notebook and pencil wrapped inside a plastic bag. Summiteers can sign their name, jot down a thought or two and be on their way. Like the age-old game of Simon, each new summiter adds to the list and the lucky winner may later recall from memory a few (if not all) of the names in years to come. Aside from the first to place the can, no one leaves anything behind but a few words, a name; however, everyone takes something down the mountain even if their pack is not heavier.
Although I cannot say whether I will climb this mountain again, I can be certain that I will climb others. When I do, it is my hope that I never, ever find another piece of plastic at the top. Junk, even strategically placed junk, is still junk.
Summit Photos from more than a few years time...
