If any moose or caribou were watching me from inside that grove of bushes across the river, they must have been wondering what I was. They were probably smart enough to figure me out though, since I still fit the bipedal format.
I was sitting on the green side of a folded up space blanket. This small yet helpful “cushion” was protecting my butt from the harshness of the great rock there. The rock – craggy and shaped by the many pieces that broke off or wore away across stratified layers – had formed itself into a natural chair. The top was flattened enough for me to seat myself, and the rock sloped down from there into the river. Plenty of room to rest my feet, though I could feel the blood pumping through my heels since they were my feet’s only pressure point. Maybe this setup would not have sold well in a furniture store, but Mother Nature had it patented anyway and the connecting scene could never have been packaged.
It was probably 11:30 at night, maybe later. The wind had slowed to a gentle flow, but the air became cooler as the sun fell below the mountain to my right. Looking at that mountain, I was attracted to the clouds above it. It was one of the first things I had noticed while setting up my little camp.
The colors changed more than the shapes. From the volcanic plume clouds contoured in brilliant yellow, they grew into an inferno red-orange with pastel yellows only left low in a valley. Everything else was gray-blue, including the hazy form of the mountain that I never looked at directly, using it instead as a sharp-edged frame for the clouds above.
The crescent moon was hovering in a washed-out blue sky over this river, and I noticed the sun was no longer making the snow on the mountains glow white hot. While walking down the road from our campsite and hopping around stone and mud bars in the river, I especially saw Mt. McKinley, huge and snow-covered in the distance. It was later obstructed from my view by a long, low ridge, but I knew it was still there. Just difficult to see because of distance and its self-made clouds, with white snow fading into the color of its background sky.
Dad and I had come down to this river from our site at the Savage River Campground in Denali National Park. We walked together between the gravel bars and bushes that split the river into convoluted channels. They changed course frequently over time; tearing down mud and stone, building it back up. The construction company was a constant flow of brown-green milky muddy snowmelt from mountains far away.
River meandering through a wide valley bottom in Denali National Park
We talked about how likely it would have been for large wildlife to live here. The huge tracks of moose, as well as caribou and even bear, confirmed that. Some were relatively fresh, and many were interspersed with a collection of dark brown egg-shaped droppings. Dad predicted we would find something around the next bend, and my confirming point startled a group of eight caribou, all growing antlers with a new brown mossy texture. They darted but then stood, eventually becoming somewhat at ease with us, though frequently glancing and sometimes directly studying us with their heads held high and erect over the plants they were tearing and eating. The herd crossed the frigid river, knee-high for them, and continued foraging on the other side. Their tension dropped when we turned and walked back.
I finally put on my last layer of defense against the elements: a black leather glove on my non-writing hand. Simply another accessory to the fashionable rock-sitting cold weather gear. My body was mostly covered with black poopysuit, though my toes were getting cold in uninsulated riding boots. My naked hand was barely keeping warm through the energy of scribbling motions. The trendiest accessory, however, was the pair of shorts I had upside down on my head; I forgot to bring a hat. I could see why the uninitiated did not use shorts to protect their head. I kept getting a draft up the leg holes.
I put on my glasses for a last survey. No wildlife except for plants and an occasional bug. No matter and no problem. It had been worth coming out to the spot on the rock. And it sure made the cocoon of a sleeping bag feel good that night.
Denali was our northwest-most destination, so our sights were turned to the rest of Alaska and beyond to the Pacific Northwest…
