NORTHERNMOST

“I^’ve never heard of anyone dumb enough to make that hike,” said the rafter, with a bit of amusement, maybe a little pity, before adding, “No offense.” Since I was standing there in my underwear, frozen in mid-strip between a soaked pair of pants and my waders, I was in no position to take offense to anything. Emmie, my lovely and enduring wife, was also standing nearby, laughing. It was a frosty morning in mid-September, 2020. Alaska was everywhere.

This was the second time I’d made the ill-advised trek. The rafter must have known something of the hike; that the “trail” is recommended for winter use only, and that it’s five miles of trudging through hip-deep muskeg haunted by monster mosquitoes.

We’d come for the trout. Below us, the Gulkana River squeezed through a spruce-lined canyon on its 60-mile trip to the Copper. The place is baptismal, Mecca-like, home to the northernmost rainbows on the continent, maybe the world.

’d hiked it the first time two months earlier, in July. Back then, it was pure reconnaissance; a mission to learn if the trail I’d heard about even existed, and to determine if a person could really travel on foot to the —an Ahtna Athabascan do it, provided their will and tolerance for mosquitos is strong enough. The year 2020 was a particularly bad year for many things, skeeters included, and my path cut through prime mosquito country. My 98 percent DEET did little to repel them.