"Did you find any gold?" This is one of the first questions anyone asks me. I suppose that technically I was in Alaska "gold mining", and that would lead one to think that an actual search for precious metal was going on. Yes, I know what we netted in the time I was there, and yes, I tell people the figure and then convert it to dollars for them and they seem satisfied, but I was mostly there for the experience and the company.
The curious part is that my uncle, Ole, the man behind the mine, the one who spends each available day pushing dirt through the sluice boxes and the remainder thinking about it, isn't concerned with gold either. He loves his mine, and has dedicated his life to it, but if a sophisticated study was conducted and a white-coated lab technician politely informed him that sluicing Liberty Creek would have the same yield that old men do on beaches with metal detectors, he would keep pushing the creek bed through the boxes.
I stepped out of the airport in Fairbanks into a full parking lot of about thirty cars. That fleet wasn't enough to overpower the smell. My nostrils were immediately overwhelmed with pine, open space and a touch of cinnamon. The drive in to the mine was amazing. It was 125 miles, and it took us about 9 hours, due to the dilapidated roads. We went through Chicken, AK and met 2 of the 17 residents who have made their fortune mining Chicken Creek. In Boundary, population 8 (one family), no one was home and on the main building was a sign reading "Best Coffee in town." That's where we left the "highway" (a dirt road) for the last 27 miles, 17 of which were built by Ole. After 5 hours that included getting stuck twice and the spontaneous application of chains to the tires, we trundled down the last hill into the mine.
From dawn until dusk each day, we attempted to sluice, a method of mining where rock from the creek bed is washed through sorting boxes. Oftentimes, the machinery wouldn't work, and whatever machine we needed to fix the broken machine didn't work either, so much of the day was devoted to repairs. We lived in a cabin that Ole built and cooked on a wood stove. The camp had no electricity, plumbing, heat, or running water, and we listened for any communication from the outside world via "Caribou Clatters," an AM radio messaging service. That sort of routine and isolation is relaxing, but the thought of being closed in by hundreds of miles of wilderness is also stifling.
At the mine, there are old trucks and tractors galore- some that work and some that don't, but nothing from later than 1960. I rode around in a Chevy pickup with my arm stuck out the window, clinging to the roof, like a college guy cruising the strip in his pimped out Beretta. My arm was not there to look cool, but rather to replace the long-missing door latch so I wouldn't go flying out into a gravel pit.
Eventually, it was time for me to leave to catch my plane back to Minneapolis. Coincidentally, just as our plans for departure took shape, it rained an inch and snowed. It rained all night, soaking the topsoil and turning the black dirt of the road into pudding. Earlier, we had tried to go out for supplies when it had only been drizzling. The Chevy got stuck four times in less than a mile. From this experience, we knew we were now at an impasse. For the first time in three weeks, Ole declared a coffee break. We walked up to the cabin, he poured himself a full cup and left me the dredges. He said he thought I should stay until freeze-up. Translation: indefinitely.
I resolved to walk the 27 miles to Boundary, and then hitch hike the last 100 miles to Tok. Then my aunt could give me a ride to the airport. I strapped my rubber breakup boots and my raincoat to my small day pack, and started off. In a cheerful goodbye, Ole gave me a shot gun and two bear slugs saying, "Wait until the bear gets close, and then shoot. If you don't kill it and it gets you, load the second slug and shoot yourself."
On the long walk, I enjoyed the scenery of mountain tops covered with freshly fallen snow. I sang at the top of my voice, all the words to any song I knew and making up words when I forget. I marveled that there was no one within distance for even an echo. I debated whether walking up or down hill was more of a strain on my leg muscles. I prayed at each turn that a hunter on a four-wheeler would appear and give me a ride. I shivered, wading through creeks as it got dark and water poured over the tops of my boots. Twenty-seven miles later I met the road. In perfect irony, a pickup truck pulled up behind me as I reached the dirt highway. I climbed into the bed, collapsed next to a couple of dogs, and rode the last half-mile to Boundary.
The majority of ideas we have that describe the frozen north are from stories. We think of cold, and adventure and pioneering; vast wilderness, freedom, and a certain element of lawlessness. I suppose these are stereotypes, but not altogether false. There may be cities in Alaska where you can walk into the Gap and buy the newest shade of cargo pants just like you can in LA, but a large portion of the state is a place reserved for those that prefer dogsleds to BMWs. That portion is the one that I would say is breathtaking, beautiful, friendly to strangers, and frightening to novices. The 40-mile region, in the interior near Canada, is where Ole has been mining for almost 25 years.
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