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A Boat Ride from Bethel to Marshall
7/23/03 by Ted Horner
If I said it was an easy trip, I'd be a liar, but regardless it had to be the most memorable boat trip I've ever taken. Hoping to stretch my water legs, I decided to try to make a solo cross country trip from Bethel across the tundra to the coast in my 16-footer. I had heard about the overland route, which required a portage between lakes, but didn't have a clue how to accomplish it. Armed with maps, GPS coordinates, a 100 foot Come-A-Long and loads of advice from Mike Rearden, Robert Sundown and Earl Atchak I headed out of Bethel Sunday morning last week. (See map route page 12.) The trip down the Kuskokwim to the Johnson under a light rain was uneventful as was the well-traveled route to the tundra village of Kasigluk. Here's where it started getting tricky. The way to the 1/4 mile portage to Takslesluk Lake is a complicated route through many small and large lakes connected by tiny, hidden sloughs. Passing the old village of Nunachuk, I was passed by a lone fisherman in a skiff heading out to check his net on Kayigyalik Lake. I followed in his wake taking advantage of his shortcut through the dense underwater lake grass. As I passed him and waved, he was to be the last soul I would see for over 100 miles. The further I traveled, the narrower the sloughs
and the shallower the water until the boat was parting the grasses and
the outboard churning mud.
Just as I was resigned to pulling my boat through the shallow muddy water I spotted a manmade wooden structure in the distance. As I neared, I could see it was a ramp from the water leading up to the tundra. Beyond, were railroad tracks heading toward another lake in the distance. This was finally the portage I had heard so much about. It appeared well-constructed with a small "car" that was pulled along the rails with a series of old rusty winches. It was a simple matter, even for me, to single-handedly crank the boat up the ramp, onto the car and move it toward the distant lake. However, as it passed the peak of the track and started heading downhill, the boat almost got away from me nearly crashing into the ramp on the other side. I was elated with the relative ease in locating the portage and then making the crossing with the boat and supplies. My joy turned to horror as I saw that beyond the exit ramp was 100 feet of mud separating the ramp from the edge of the lake! I had brought plastic pipe to roll the boat on and a come-a-long for hauling the boat but the mud was 12 inches of the gooiest, thickest mud and there was not a single tree or willow anywhere to attach the hoist. Trying to push even an empty boat along these rollers was a useless exercise in futility. I recalled a comment by Mike Rearden before I left. He said something about a "dead man". I didn't exactly know what that was; only that it exactly described me if I didn't figure out something soon. Down at the distant water's edge I dug a long and deep trench and found a log to which I attached one end of by rope hoist and buried it under the muck. This log must be the dead man! It provided me an anchor and I was able to painfully, inch by inch, crank the boat to the shore over a period of about 10 hours. The next morning I was finally able to float the empty boat and pack all of my gas and supplies through the treacherous mud. I was exhausted, sore and blistered all to hell, but the sun rose to great clear morning skies, and I was triumphant and happy to be on my way. I traveled across Takslesluk Lake and found the
slough at the west end which would lead to Puk Palik Lake which I crossed
easily into another long slough and series of small lakes which passed
through the most spectacular area for birds I have ever seen. Thousands
of ducks, geese, crane, swans and others I couldn't begin to recognize.
One goose took off flying, hearing my boat motor, and flew right at me before he realized his error. Three feet away from me I could clearly see his startled expression before he veered away. I wish I had Frank Keim or someone along who could identify the different birds for me. This area eventually emptied out into Kaghasuk Lake, a large body of water which finally emptied into what Earl Atchak termed the "ocean-like lake", or Baird Inlet. Miles ahead, off in the distance, were the hills of Nelson Island, and while the Inlet was truly like an ocean, it had sandbars like a river and soon I got stuck. Later, I was on my way following the northern shore of Nelson Island which led to the Ninglick River and after dodging more sandbars and some large waves, I made it finally to Newtok in the late afternoon on the low tide. I made my way to Tom's Store and was given helpful advice by Stanley Tom. He invited me for soup, which I had to decline as the weather was calm, the tide was coming in and I wanted to make it around the Naskonat Peninsula before dark. I took off at 7:30 pm with calm water on the Ninglick River following it out to the Bering Sea. Rounding the peninsula and starting to cross the mouth of the Aphrewn River toward Hazen Point, a south wind came up and combining with the river currents and incoming tides, started creating large swells. I was forced to cut my speed down to a creep and suffered the cold water streaming over the bow for several hours, finally reaching Hazen Point in one piece. By this time the tide was going out and I was rapidly being trapped on a large sandbar, so I threw out an anchor, had dinner and went to sleep for my second night. Early the next morning I awoke to the sound of water
rushing and saw that the tide was returning. The waters were relatively
calm so I wasted no time heading up the river in search of Earl Atchak's
fish camp. He had invited me for the "best coffee on the coast"
and I was ready to try it out.
The region at the lower end of the Aphrewn River is absolutely flat without a stick of anything rising above the tundra. One can see for miles, even seated in an open skiff. The river was mainly calm but there were stretches of rough water, which were worse than anything I had encountered in the ocean the evening before. I passed numerous fish camps early that morning but, no one stirred so I just passed on by. Following my directions I finally made it to Earl's camp at 9 a.m., which was equally as silent as the others'. Rather than disturbing them, I tied up to the bank and did some housekeeping including organizing my gear and putting my wet clothes out to dry in the morning sun. Shortly afterward, Earl popped his head out of his Weatherport tent, stretched and looking around was surprised to find me parked at his camp unannounced. He welcomed me, us meeting face-to-face for the first time, and he put on some of his famous coffee. The fish camp was without many amenities, but he did have a small Honda generator running his all-important coffee grinder, which went to work on his whole bean San Francisco French Roast coffee! Earl and Lisa Unin along with son Ethan Smart and
nephew Harold Atchak were wonderful hosts allowing me to rest and hang
up clothes to dry. We lunched on fresh fried whitefish from their nearby
set net as well as a version of Chevak sushi which is called qasa'iagaq
made from a special black fin whitefish. It is eaten raw right out of
the water!
Peter Tulik, from his fish camp next door, stopped by for a visit and we were interrupted by low flying planes overhead bound for Hooper Bay. Peter wanted me to plead for a "No Fly Zone" over the fish camps! I rested for the remainder of the morning and part of the afternoon while Earl went over my upcoming trip to the Yukon on the Kashunuk River. As a real taskmaster, he made me recite back to him the directions over and over. When my clothes were dry and I felt I knew where I was going, I departed about 4 p.m. that afternoon. It wasn't long before I got in trouble, taking a wrong turn, heading back downriver and almost back to Earl's camp before I discovered my error. Burned an entire hour. Heading up the Aphrewn, which turns into the Kashunuk River, I noticed a gradual change in scenery. Willows started appearing along the banks and lake grass in the river. However, this was not like the thick lake grass found near the tundra villages of Nunapitchuk and Kasigluk. The Kashunuk grass is like angel hair pasta, which wraps itself around the motor prop quickly disabling the engine. It wraps so tight it has to be cut off with a knife. Getting stuck in one such shallow region of the river, I had to walk the boat for a mile before I was clear enough of the stuff to get going again. As I moved up the Kashunuk the trees got larger and larger and birds, smaller and smaller until I no longer saw the large white swans lumbering off the water at the sound of my boat. I was on the lookout for moose and bear but saw none of either. I camped that night in a slough below Owl Village. The next morning the previous sunny skies had given way to cold, wind and rain, so I wasted no time in moving up the river toward the Yukon.
The upper Kashunuk River becomes very windy with many switchbacks, and very narrow – almost to the size of a creek. I finally arrived at 5:15 p.m. at the Yukon River just below Pilot Station. I was greeted with gusty south winds creating a sandstorm from the bars and large waves, which were frankly frightening to me. Saying a prayer I headed directly across the river toward the cliffs and followed the shore up to Pilot. I asked directions for the house of Andrew and Susie Makaily, and finding it, I discovered they were in Bethel, but their children Jackie and Andrew, III took good care of me with a hot shower, a great meal and a warm place to sleep for the night. Thank you so much! Rising early the next morning (Thursday), I headed upriver to Marshall where I was warmly welcomed by Leslie Hunter and Elena Sergei who fed me and offered me a place to park my boat and store my gear while I flew home to file this report in the newspaper. (Trip to be continued…)
Completing the Circle of the Delta
Completing the first leg of my boating journey from Bethel to the coast and up to the Yukon, I left my somewhat battered 16-foot Jon boat and gear in Marshall under the care of Leslie Hunter, Sr. and flew back to Bethel to file the report in last week's newspaper edition. The ocean trip and crossing of Hazen Bay had taken its toll on the lightweight riveted boat, not really designed for rough water. Rivets had worked loose and the already leaky boat was only getting worse. Leaving the boat in Marshall for a few days, I hired Nick Andrew, Jr. to attempt patching repairs on the poor vessel which he did but when we put the boat in the water last week when I returned, we discovered a weld had cracked near the bow and had to make-do with emergency patching compound, which only helped a little. Monday morning, I pointed the boat upriver in the direction of Russian Mission for a four-hour ride. Strong southwest winds stirred up huge waves along certain stretches forcing me to run along the beaches and sandbars. Rounding the bend at Ohogamiut, I encountered some of the worst waves I had seen yet. Early that afternoon, I pulled safely into Russian
Mission and located Joe Kozevnikoff who I had arranged to help me make
the trip through the portages from Russian Mission back to the Kuskokwim.
Joe Boy, as he is widely known throughout the Yukon, is one of the few
people who still regularly makes the "High Portage" crossings
that link the Yukon and the Kuskokwim Rivers.
Accompanying us on the trip were his three oldest children – Robert, Marianne and Gary, and by the time we departed Russian Mission with provisions and 30 gallons of gas, the boat was riding low in the water creeping along with my 25 hp outboard. The mouth of Portage Slough is about 7 miles downriver from Marshall and winds its way east through wooded areas full of game. In the 2 1/2 hour trip up the slough, we saw moose, black bear, porcupines, bald eagles and the ever-present ducks. By 8:45 that evening we reached the "high portage". By emptying the boat of gas and other heavy gear and using the trusty come-a-long, we dragged the boat and motor up the steep bank to the start of the tramway tracks. According to Joe, the simple tram system was constructed in the 80s, but from recent disuse the tracks were heavily overgrown with grass and weeds, but were still usable with caution. We hoisted the boat and gear up onto the tramcar and began pushing it down the track through a long meadow, which led to the base of another steep incline. This was called the high portage because of the steepness of the hill. At the top was a manual, two-handled winch used to drag the boat to the summit. Joe was quite experienced and knew exactly how to organize the operation. From here it was level followed by a downhill push
toward the distant lake. At the end of the tram we discovered how low
the water level actually was. The tram fell short of the lake by several
hundred yards. Using discarded pipes and tree limbs as rollers, we pushed
the boat finally to the water, arriving after midnight.
Reports from local people I had spoken to in Russian Mission indicated that the water level was high in the lakes, but this was obviously very untrue. Pushing on toward a narrow slough that was to lead to an adjoining lake we found it to be totally dry and we faced a tough, muddy portage of about for a 1/4-mile. Crossing about half the distance, darkness and exhaustion closed in at 3:00 am and we camped for the night. I fell asleep hoping we were through the worst of the portage and early the next morning I awoke to the sound of a plane circling overhead. Though we were in an isolated area, we were apparently on the flight route of incoming planes to Russian Mission from Kalskag and elsewhere. However, this was a white floatplane with red markings which I recognized as the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service's Husky and I first feared that some emergency, death in the family or other tragedy brought searchers looking for me. It turned out that Refuge Manager Mike Rearden and biologist Patrick Snow were flying up to Paimiut for the day and decided to check out the portage, recognized my boat and landed to say hello. We chatted for a short while and they departed on their way. Meanwhile, Joe and his crew were soundly sleeping and when they later woke up Joe said I should have woken him because he would have asked if the plane could drop off our heavier supplies at a distant lake. That hadn't occurred to me and this was a mistake my sore body would soon regret. Eating a quick breakfast with coffee, we continued to haul the boat through the portage between the small lakes and slowly motored to the far end to start our longest portage of the trip at 4 pm. Consistent with the other lakes, the water level was low, the lowest Joe had ever seen, which was contributed to by the poor snowfall last winter and lack of rain. The portage up the gradual incline and down over
nearly dry tundra seemed like many miles but was actually only a mile.
Collecting rollers from every possible source, we accumulated 43 by the
time we had finished, according to 16-year-old Gary Kozevnikoff, who had
been counting.
The task became a grueling endurance test throughout the night with occasional breaks for coffee and snacks. All gas cans and heavy gear had to be offloaded and packed by hand along the route. Soon a real system of teamwork developed as the boat was pushed by all-hands along the stretch of rollers, the trailing rollers collected and placed again ahead of the boat and the heavy gear packed along the route. This was repeated over and over again and we got so good at it that it required almost no communication, which was fine with me – I was too exhausted to talk. Joe ingeniously devised a "sled" of poles, tarp and rope that allowed us to carry/drag some of the more awkward items. Despite the grueling work, no sleep, the cold rain that began, there wasn't a complaint from anyone. Everybody just pushed on reaching the water's edge at Kulik Lake by dawn. The night rain cleared to a spectacular crimson sunrise reflecting off the water. Passing this last portage, I was confident we would soon be on our way reaching deeper water to float the boat and load the gear. We dragged the unloaded boat out into the lake almost a quarter of a mile as the water got gradually deeper, packing the gas cans, grub boxes and other items behind. Finally the water depth reached almost one foot, deep enough to load up the gear but not to climb aboard and run the motor. The five of us hauled and pushed the boat toward what we thought would be deeper water in that huge lake, but it soon became obvious that Kulic Lake, which was three miles across, was going to get no deeper. This began what felt like a "death march" slogging through mucky lake bottom with heavy waders mile after mile after doing heavy lifting and hauling all night long. Joe could see that everyone was tired, but knew we had to reach the distant shoreline before we succumbed to exhaustion and the cold. He seemed tireless in leading us across that lake which took about five hours with nothing more than occasionally catching our breath. At 10:30 that morning we finally reached the connecting slough to the adjoining portage lake and once we got into deep water to run the motor, we tied up to a high spot of tundra and everyone took a short nap in the warm sun. Somewhat refreshed, we headed out at 2:30 that afternoon in search of the start of the Johnson River. We had an option of taking the shorter route to Lower Kalskag, but as this required another portage, we decided to return the long way down the Johnson River. The area was a maze of shallow lakes and creeks,
but somehow Joe found the correct route to the Johnson. The key, he said,
was to watch for the current, which would lead to the river. At first,
heavy pushing gave way to very narrow and winding creeks that got slowly
deeper and wider.
Later that afternoon we stopped at a high rise of tundra that is used as a camp by hunters and we found a sea of ripe salmonberries, which we picked for a while before continuing on our way. The next 9 or 10 hours down the headwaters of the Johnson River was slow going with the water choked with grass and numerous beaver dams which Joe had to chop his way through and "jump" with the boat. During several hours of this stretch, my body shutdown and I napped in the boat. Finally, we reached the mouth of Crooked Creek, which leads toward Lower Kalskag. Here, the underwater grass thinned out allowing us to run at top speed until we reached a cabin at 3 am where we made camp after 36 hours without a night of sleep. Firing up the stove with split spruce logs we slowly warmed up with cups of tea and slept until about noon that morning. Joe located flour and rice and began making fry bread with rice to which we added a can of chili. I learned on this trip the lesson of eating lots of food to keep my energy levels up. Joe would encourage everyone to eat and eat. Taking stock of our supplies, we found we were getting low on food and water and perilously low on gasoline. We were unsure if we would make to Nunapitchuk. We just hoped for the best. We broke camp and departed the cabin at 3 pm, making a steady 20 miles each hour down the Johnson. The river widened and was relatively free of hazards and I was able to share the boat driving duties. This stretch of the Johnson River is extremely remote and not frequently traveled this time of year and was full of swans, cranes, ducks and other waterfowl. The swans were losing their feathers and several times we came upon them and drove right by them, as they couldn't flee. The wooded areas gave way to bare tundra and we happened upon a boat with Adrian Tobeluk and his family who were from Nunap and we asked the distance to the village which he said was about 1 1/2 hours. We took a snack break as the Tobeluk family departed for home. Soon we were on our way and after passing a bend we found that Adrian had been waiting for us, evidently to guide us to the village. This was a good thing because we never would have found our way through the lakes and sloughs to Nunapitchuk in the failing evening light. Our thanks for Adrian's thoughtfulness. Quyana! As we crossed Nunavakanukakslak Lake north of the
village our engine sputtered to a stop and we switched tanks to one that
just had drops of gas in it and arrived on fumes! We docked the boat and
I looked up Robert Nick who kindly took us in to get warmed up with coffee,
soup and dry fish. He generously gave us six gallons of gas and a 12-pack
of pop as we headed down the Johnson River after midnight. Thank you Robert!
This was more my country than Joe's so I attempted to take the lead in navigating us home. I did okay until I attempted to take the shortcut up Napakiak Slough and mis-judging the tides almost got us grounded for the night on a sandbar. Turning around and heading out toward the Johnson River mouth, we made it around the bend up the Kuskokwim after hitting a few more sandbars. A mile or so up the Kuskokwim, we hit another large sandbar in the dark and after working our way around it finally got into the channel with Napakiak only 3 miles away. Then the motor died and we discovered that we must have mis-judged our fuel needs. We got the motor started again by tilting gas cans and slowly idling up the Kuskokwim not knowing whether we should beach ourselves on a sandbar to keep from drifting further downriver or to press-on hoping to make Napakiak on our dwindling gas supply. I was ready to empty the Coleman stove gas into the fuel tank when the lights of Napakiak came into view. It was 4 am and not a house light was lit as we anchored on the beach. Not having any close friends in Napakiak, I nevertheless went to the nearby house of Fritz and Alice Andrew and knocked on the door to ask for a few gallons of gas. Fritz kindly received us but he only had pre-mixed gas but directed me to his neighbor Henry Willie who we woke up. Henry helped us out with three gallons of gas for which he refused any payment. He and Katie Vincent invited us into their home to warm up and they even gave me a pair of dry socks! Quyana for your thoughtfulness! We were on our way and I managed to avoid the rest of the sandbars on the way home and we pulled into Bethel at about 5:30 am. – exactly 3 1/2 days and approximately 250 rough river and portage miles since we pulled out of Russian Mission. This completed a circle route starting from the Kuskokwim to Nelson Island to the Yukon and back to the Kuskokwim of over 800 miles. Many boating, camping and survival lessons were learned, but most importantly the toughness, kindness and generosity of the people of the region, without whose help the journey would not be possible. Thank you all! (As an editorial footnote, it is sad to see the
declining use and deteriorating condition of these portage facilities
that once provided such a vital transportation and cultural link between
areas of our region. With millions being proposed and spent on roads,
highways and other transportation systems – it would be a true service
to the region to repair and upgrade these portage links for the benefit
of all.) |
