Trials and Tribulations on the Way to Triangle Peak

Since we recently hiked up the Castner-Fels Divide, it seems time for me to run this story I wrote from my hike up the same divide back in June 2008. I never did get this published anywhere, so now's my chance!

I sit munching my sandwich, studying the ridge before me. Should I try to keep hiking? 

According to my map and my best estimation, I have reached the first peak that surpasses 7,000 feet in elevation on this ridge. Having hiked for five hours, I am tired and I still have to return. I look from the map to the scene before me. Even if I can negotiate those snowfields in the valley, I will have to descend at least 200 feet in elevation before climbing to the next peak, which tops out at 7,368 feet. That seems like a lot of effort. Is it worth it?

Beyond and to the north of that peak is Triangle Peak, the name that had drawn me this far. From my lunch spot I can see Triangle Peak but not the entire route to get there. What I can see isn’t promising. It’s a long way with lots of loose rock and snow. What little snow I have crossed so far has been knee-deep soft. 

Lots of rocky and snowy ridgeline.

I tell myself I won’t make it to Triangle Peak, but as long as I have come this far why not try for the peak in front of me? It’s the highest point I can reasonably attain, even higher than Triangle Peak.

“What’s the point?” moans the tired, unmotivated hiker from one shoulder. “Let’s turn around and go back.”

“You’ve come this far. Get to that high point!” my goal-oriented, motivated überhiker cheers me on from my other shoulder.

I compromise, deciding to hike a little farther and look for a reasonable route. If not, no big deal. I’ve already had a great hike. I finish my lunch and start loading my backpack.

----

My journey this far had been a matter of impulse to a certain degree. For Father’s Day my family had given me the weekend to myself. They headed up the Steese Highway to go camping. I headed south down the Richardson Highway to Castner Glacier, drawn by Kyle Joly’s description in his book, Outside in the Interior. 

A weekend spent hiking alone might not appeal to a lot of people, but it’s heaven to me. I don’t consider myself a loner, but I guess I’ve got that tendency. To me, hiking alone is one of the deepest forms of meditation. It combines slow-paced physical exertion with immersion in the wilderness. Plus, I can let my mind wander. One moment I might be pondering some deep question about human existence. A few minutes later I might be humming the tune to Gilligan’s Island. I’m responsible to no one else and don’t have to compromise with anyone but myself. It’s a blissful existence, for a time at least.

I headed south Friday evening, parked my car along Castner Creek at about 11 p.m., and backpacked in about a mile where I set up camp in a dry glacial streambed. During the drive down and hike in, Triangle Peak had been tugging at my mind. Kyle mentions it in his book as a side destination. The only non-technical route to the peak is along a gradually rising alpine ridge. I had seen that ridge many times while driving the Richardson and yearned to climb it. By the time I laid my head on my stuff sack pillow, I knew I would climb that ridge the next day instead of hiking up the glacier. 

Just off the Richardson Highway the Castner-Fels Divide, my eventual destination, rises up.

The first part of the ridge hike requires a short but brutal bushwhack through alder-infested glacial moraine on the southern valley wall. Negotiating alder thickets is a hellish but often necessary feature of off-trail travel in Alaska. After a quick breakfast, I started. 

Much to my surprise and delight, I almost immediately found a route cut through the alders. The route was old and sometimes difficult to follow, but it led me to the rock outcrop on the ridge for which I had been aiming. Soon I had attained an alpine plateau above the outcrop. 

The next few hours I climbed the steadily ascending ridge, which required minor scrambling in some places. Along the way I was treated to incredible views of rugged mountains and glaciers and a few wildlife sightings. Ground squirrels and marmots were scattered throughout the area, and I caught sight of a horned lark and a couple of snow buntings.

A view of the ridge ahead partway up.

Some color amid a lot of gray.

At one point, as I negotiated a rock spine on the ridge, I looked up to see an animal in the middle of a snowfield ahead. A second later I realized it was a wolverine! I had seen a wolverine in the wild only one other time and that had been more than 30 years before. I pulled out my camera and quickly snapped a photo.

Wolverine!

The wolverine had seen me, and I assumed it would flee. But as I watched, it ran toward the spine of rock I was on and disappeared behind an outcropping. It seemed to be curious. Cautiously, excitedly, I walked forward, scanning the rocks. Sure enough, the animal appeared on the rock spine in front of me.  Slowly, I walked forward trying to take pictures, but the wolverine kept its distance. After watching me for some time, it finally decided to leave. I sat down and watched it lope over the snowfield, finally disappearing out of sight over the ridge. Jazzed at the rare sighting, I hiked on and up. Within a couple of hours I was at my lunch spot, pondering my next move.

As the wolverine approached me I got excited -- and a bit nervous!

----

After packing up from lunch, I scout the small valley between me and peak 7368. I see that I can link several open patches of ground with some short snow crossings. My tired hiker frowns at those patches but not enough to turn me back. I posthole through much of the snow, but the stretches are short. Finally, I am clear of the snow and make my way to the peak. 

The rest of the ridge to this point has been solid footing, but this peak is a mass of loose, unstable rocks. Choosing each step is tricky since any rock, even the big ones, might be loose. Several times a rock I think is solidly placed shifts under my weight, causing me to flail for balance. My tired hiker becomes a bit frantic, reminding me that a twisted ankle could leave me in deep doo-doo. 

“And the farther we go forward, the farther we have to return!” he whines.

I am beginning to agree and think of heading back when I see a smooth, rock-free ridgeline about 50 feet ahead.

“At least get to that ridgeline,” my überhiker tells me, “then we can figure out the next move.” 

I agree and negotiate the last few unstable rocks, breathing a sigh of relief as I step onto the ridgeline. A wall of snow on my left prevents me from seeing Triangle Peak, but the snow slopes down farther up the ridgeline.

“At least look at the snowfield and Triangle Peak,” says my überhiker.

The distance is so short and the footing so good my tired hiker doesn’t argue. That’s a mistake. Now that I have come this far, the possibility of really trying for Triangle Peak is rattling around. Soon I can see the peak, but to get to it I would have to traverse a snowfield several hundred yards long. 

The rather nondescript Triangle Peak.

“Oh well, too bad,” consoles my tired hiker. “Time to turn around. The snow will surely be too soft. We can’t post-hole that far! Let’s enjoy the views and start back.”

“Sure,” says my überhiker, “but as long as we’re already this far why don’t we at least step on the snow to check it?”

I take one step, and sink up to my knee. I take another step and get the same result.

“I knew it! I knew it!” my tired hiker crows. “Now, let’s head back.”

“Oh, just a couple of more steps,” goads my überhiker.

I take another step. This time I sink only to my ankle. Another step. The same result. Hmmm. I take a few more steps and don’t sink past my ankles. All the while an argument rages on my shoulders. 

“It might be soft later on! Are you sure it’s a snowfield? What if it’s really a glacier with hidden crevasses? It’s still a long way to Triangle Peak and then we have to climb that last pitch. I’m already exhausted!” 

My tired hiker has many good arguments, but my überhiker won’t give up.

“The snow might be good all the way across. The last pitch to Triangle Peak is not that high. We’ve got plenty of food, water, and daylight. And when’s the next time we’re going to get this close? We’ve already come so far, why not try if we can?!”

I walk forward cautiously, half expecting to start post-holing with each step. I also look and listen for any indications that I am not on a good, solid snowfield. But nothing happens to make me nervous. The snow stays firm and quiet. I soon get into a rhythm of walking and the bickering on my shoulders dies out. I steadily make my way across the snowfield, finding several sets of tracks from other animals that have also crossed the snowfield. 

Looking back at my tracks across the snowfield just before Triangle Peak.

As I walk, I chuckle to myself. The only reason I am trying for Triangle Peak is because it has a name on a map. I have never seen it from below and longed to view the world from its summit. There is nothing particularly distinguishing about it from the ridgeline I have been hiking. It is not even the highest point of my hike. The only reason I am making this final effort is because the peak’s name is on a map and in a book. Strange what things can motivate us.

After about 15 minutes, I approach the base of Triangle Peak. As I near the edge of the snowfield I start post-holing again, but I hear nothing from my tired hiker. It is too late for his arguments. I struggle through the soft snow to bare rock and then scramble up the steep slope of rock and loose scree. In a few minutes I top out on Triangle Peak. 

Final approach to Triangle Peak!

Immediately, I see that the peak actually has two peaks. Without hesitation I head straight to the farthest peak, which appears to have the best view, and hope it will be the farthest point of my hike. I am getting tired!

The view is spectacular! From my perch, I am surrounded by rugged mountains and glaciers. I look back at the ridge that I had just hiked up. From this side it is a mass of broken rock, cracked snow, and overhanging cornices. I can barely see sections of the far more gentle southern side. I find it hard to imagine that I had just come from there. I sit down for a while to fully appreciate the wildness of the spot. I can’t see the road or pipeline and not even an airplane breaks the blue canvas of sky. I find it incredible to be in such a wild spot just a long day hike from one of the major roads in Alaska. Even my tired hiker agrees that this is worth the extra effort.

The view from Triangle Peak!

Upper Castner Glacier from Triangle Peak.

On my return I stop for short rests frequently. Tired and sore, I look forward to dinner and my sleeping bag. I finally finish the hike more than 13 hours after I had started.

But as I hike the last part of the ridge I keep scanning the north wall of the Castner Glacier valley. On the north ridge near the valley mouth a rock outcrop stands out from the rest of the tundra on the ridge. The outcrop is a natural destination, plus it’s got a name on the map—Devils Thumbs. However, it requires a bit of an alder bushwhack to get to the tundra of the ridge.

“Maybe someone has cut a path through those alders,” says a familiar voice. “It wouldn’t be a long hike. You’ve got time tomorrow morning. And you’re already in the area.”

“No! No! You’re going to be sore and tired tomorrow morning,” protests another voice. “And you’ve still got to pack up camp and hike out. And you want to hit Delta Junction around lunch time to grab a burger.”  

Tomorrow will be an interesting day, I think.