Saturday, September 18, 2010

More cub

No backstory this time. Just a cute little cub playing with dead fish in the flooded estuary during high tide. I will say that we saw a cub wrestling a big dead salmon, clutching it between its jaws and flinging it back and forth rather violently. The cub swung the dead salmon with such disregard for its surroundings that it actually smacked its mother in the side of the face with 5 or 6 pounds of fishy dead weight...

Takin' a peak. A rather flirtatious glance...



A happy cub with a firm grip on a dead pink.


Chowing down on the tasty remains of a decaying carcass.


Bear hugging with a salmon.


Yeah!

The Keystone and the Money Tree

Salmon are the money tree. The keystone species. They hold it all together. Much of Alaska's economy, and its ecosystems, depend directly or indirectly upon robust populations of salmon. The commercial fishing industry: obvious. The guided sport fishing industry: obvious. Commercial crabbing: less obvious. Every summer and fall, salmon spawn up anadromous streams, spawn, die, and flush out to the brackish tidal waters where thousands of crabs lay in wait for all of that organic debris to feast upon. Wildlife watching: less obvious. Bears, whales, orca, porpoises, seals, sea lions, eagles, gulls, mink, otters. All of these species heavily feed on salmon every year. Healthy forests: even less obvious. Birds and mammals take salmon carcasses away from the stream and into the forest throughout the summer, eating what they want, and depositing the rest of that nutrient-rich organic debris throughout the forest. That discarded organic debris leaches invaluable nutrients into the forest soils, thus creating healthier botanic communities and larger trees. Recent studies have clearly indicated salmon DNA in trees throughout the Tongass National Forest. Those tree roots are sucking up the nutrients oozing into the forest floor.
If salmon disappear, a lot of Alaska's beauty and wildness will also disappear. Salmon jobs will disappear. Crabbing jobs will disappear. Tourism jobs will disappear. Wildlife will disappear. The biggest trees won't be quite as healthy. And people don't recognize this fact. Salmon hold it all together. It's the money tree that keeps on giving, as long as you pluck a few leaves every year rather than chopping down the whole thing for a few quick bucks. Yet some industries are actively pursuing measures that would significantly impact salmon habitat, and thus the whole chain of events just described. Think it's a case of simply "crying wolf?" Take a look at the Salmon River in Idaho. That river wasn't arbitrarily named. It used to have tremendous runs of salmon only a century ago. How many salmon spawn up the Salmon River these days? Zero. How many commercial fishing and tourism jobs are generated on that river from salmon today? Zero. What would the ecosystem and landscape look like today if the keystone species hadn't been removed? Hard to know... The same can be said for dozens of major rivers throughout Idaho, Washington, Oregon, and California. Salmon numbers aren't nearly what they used to be at best. At worst, the salmon are entirely gone. And thus, the corresponding wildlife, habitat, and potential industries are gone as well.
Whenever you read or hear about a resource issue that could potentially affect salmon, understand the value of the fish. They're what hold this state together.


A few pink salmon considering a nice redd - the area in the river's gravel bed in which females will deposit their eggs and males will later fertilize.



Death next to life. The cycle. Dozens of salmon carcasses litter the shore, while living salmon continue to spawn upstream.


More carcasses. These salmon have already spawned and ultimately died. Bears, mink, otter, crabs, eagles, gulls, insects, and other bacteria will devour these carcasses, continuing the complex and healthy ecological web that makes Alaska such a magnificent place. Think of all of the rivers, streams, and tributaries littered with this much organic debris throughout Alaska. All of that organic matter isn't just taking up space. It's feeding the whole ecosystem. Take away all of that invaluable organic material, all of those nutrients, and watch the whole system (and the local economy) deteriorate...


A couple of good lookin' dead beats.


The remains of a salmon after a few tide cycles. Something's been feasting on this slimy body...


Monday, September 6, 2010

Snowcapped to valley floor

Descending off of Narrow Pass to the Thoroughfare Valley floor under blue skies is certainly one definition of a satisfactory afternoon. We thought we'd get a glimpse of the high one, Denali, but we kept getting our view blocked by smaller peaks like this one. And as the afternoon progressed, the clouds rolled in, covering up the high one by the time we got the opportunity for a full frontal...


Sunrise Glacier melting into the Sunrise Creek drainage, complete with a scenic mountain shoulder dusted with fresh snow. I found this confusing, as Sunrise Glacier faced toward the sunset, and Sunset Glacier faced toward the sunrise. Not quite sure how that works out...


Sunrise Creek winding its way through a narrow canyon on the west side of Scott Peak.


Looking back toward the Alaska Range from the tundra above the Thoroughfare River valley. Another godd-sized grizzly lumbered along the shores of this kettle pond, picking his way through the blueberry bushes in the summer sun.


We hitched a ride to the west side of the park and stayed the night under a big moon. Here she is, rising over Mt. Brooks, illuminating the nocturnal landscape.


After a week in the park and not catching a single glimpse of the high one, I finally got the opportunity to steal a glance at the summit from a bus stop near Talkeetna...

Narrow Pass

Sneaking into the snow-laced ridges around 6,500 feet, it was in the back of my mind (nah, let's be realistic; it was at the front of my mind) that the blue skies would disappear, to be replaced by the misty gray winds typical of that elevation. Yet we kept climbing, the hours kept passing, and the blue sky remained. What a cherry!


Looking for a lunching location at the saddle of our unnamed pass. Ever the pragmatists, we casually named the little slice of ridge Narrow Pass due to the fact that the pass itself was about five meters wide. Our little footsteps can be seen traversing the mountainside above Emily's head in the background.



With a belly full of lunch, Emily practices her slopestyle atop a ridiculously photogenic ridgeline.


Much of this snow was quite crunchy and old, but there was a layer of the fresh stuff to be found. It was warm enough to remove one's shirt and collect a sun tan atop this ridge. For a few minutes, at least...



Investigating an ice cave diving into a rogue sheet of ice spewing down Scott Peak's mountainside.


Bigger view, same ice cave. Yet without the hominids in place to add a relevant scale, the ice cave somehow looks smaller...

Scott Peak

Scott Peak, standing at 8,800 feet and change, marks the beginning of the real peaks of the Alaska Range. The Toklat Glacier rests in one of Scott Peak's pockets, as well as underfoot and covered by debris.


The Toklat Glacier covered with debris leading directly into the teeth of Scott Peak. A couple friendly souls provide some scale in the debris, front and center...


Getting an early start in the valley floor.



This Alaska Range view speaks my language, and yours too, I reckon.



Descending one of many high points on the Toklat's debris. And a blue-peppered sky to boot.


Alpine. Very nice.


The Green Dome and the Toklat Glacier

Nearing the Toklat Glacier, it became irresistable to not scoot up one of the various mountain folds surrounding us. After we set up camp and polished off our Tasty Bites, I scampered up a nearby ridge to get a bird's eye view. Pretty choice location for a bird's eye, I must confess. Looking down on the valley in the damp, chilly wind, I was reminded of Jared Diamond's description of Viking Greenland in the 15th century. Not because I thought myself a Viking at that particular moment (althouth I'm sure I have some Swedish and Danish Viking in my genetic code), but because the only things growing in this part of the valley were ground level shrubs and alpine grasses and flowers. A small group of dall sheep negotiated the hillside to nibble on the shrubs, and I thought of Vikings bringing their sheep to Iceland and Greenland, only to discover the land was too fragile to support the hungry chomp of the domestic sheep's mouth. It appears Alaska's interior has worked out a biologically symbiotic agreement between Dall sheep and alpine vegetation.


A handful of Dall sheep resting atop one of many scenic overlooks.



The beginnings of the Toklat River, as viewed atop one of the Green Dome's ridges late at night.



The Toklat Glacier and the Toklat River's headwaters as seen from the high ridge sloping off of the Green Dome.


A late evening rendez-vous with Emily, Jared, and our new friend Toklat.



And there he is: evil incarnate. The big, bad, bloodthirsty antichrist scheming his next sport-killing event. This carnivorous canid was exceptionally shy, and left as quickly as we arrived. And no, I did not see him along the Toklat. I saw him from the Denali bus. But I didn't know where else to put this photo, and I reckon it's a fine photo, so I had to include it somewhere. Since we saw a handful of wolf tracks paralleling the Toklat as we advanced upriver, I figured I'd capitalize on a little poetic license here...

Toward the Toklat's toe, and its headwaters, too

Later the next day, I hung around the toilets at the Toklat bus stop for an hour or so, and eventually met up with my good pal Emily and her good pal Jared. We commenced our collective leg of the trip not far from the toilets, and soon found ourselves in some frightfully beautiful landscapes.


Heading upriver along the Toklat. One very blonde Toklat grizzly rambled along the side of the mountain near here. It seemed to have been riding a good sugar high, as it bounced and girated its way through the blueberry bushes. (Well, perhaps it didn't exactly girate, but it did seem to bee bop along at a pretty good clip).



Emily and Jared continuing upriver toward the enchanted peaks.


If only I were a geologist, I could describe to you what is happening on the slab of rock in the foreground of this Denali landscape. Unfortunately, I am no geologist, so I can't even speculate the formative forces behind the white and orange symbols metamorphosed into this riverbed boulder. But it sure is fancy to look at!


Emily and Jared elected to scramble across a slippery rock face adjacent to the river. I elected to scramble up the hill to avoid the slippery rock face, only to discover that I had no way down other than the way I'd just come, which provided the pair with a nice opportunity for a riverside snack as they waited. I do believe somebody is visible in the bottom right of the photo, providing a bit of scale for the scene.



Nearing the Toklat headwaters in a deliciously green valley framed by light dustings of fresh snow. Can't argue with that.


Accessible ridges

Just a few views from a couple of Denali's most accessible ridges. I took a nap on the first ridge and was indeed awakened by the clashing sounds of wind flapping my jacket against my face and a wolf howling to the north (or south, or east, I couldn't really tell with all that wind). Regardless, Primrose Ridge is a nice spot to catch a few z's in the warm August sun.


A big view from Primrose Ridge. I saw no mammalian activity from the ridge, but I did hear a wolf howling. I also noticed a super-sized storm fast approaching from the west, which is slightly visible in the right of this photo.



But all was sunny and warm on the eastern front.


However, the storm will always catch you and provide a free course in the varieties and characterizations of precipitation. This squall wasn't bad, as it mostly involved mists and light gusts of wind.



Yet when the squall passes, which is frequent to quite frequent in Denali, the patient are rewarded with technocolor! I sat around on one of many ridges extending high up Polychrome Mountain and absorbed the big views and cornucopia of color the passing precipitations provided.


The classic colors of Polychrome Mountain. I walked this ridge for a while before I set up camp and found a few costco-sized piles of wolf scat and more than one discarded hare foot. I had to pause on this golden ridge for a while to contemplate the colorful arc in front of me.

Dall sheep

One of the primary reasons for establishing Mt. McKinley National Park was the preservation of Dall sheep habitat. There are quite a few enclaves of the white sheep throughout the region, including this good looking group.


A young ram posing confidently with a cheek full of chew.



Somebody must have told this ram a decent joke, as he appears to be struggling to keep a straight face.


The big boy of the group. Regal enough.



A little toothy.



Cheek to cheek. I wish I knew why some mammals display this behavior. I've seen sibling brown bears show similar behavior, but I do not understand its significance. I'm sure there are a few journals or excerpts on this behavior out there, but I haven't exactly looked hard for the material...


Ungulates!

Strolling around in the foothills of the Alaska Range, I was moderately confident that I'd get to lay my eyes upon some hefty ungulates. Living in the rainforest, one develops an aesthetic craving for creatures other than bears and blacktail deer. My eyes were peeled for velvety protrusions in the willowed hillsides...

And sure enough, ol' caribou provided a free glance at his buns and rack. A sizeable set of antlers by any standard...



Navigating a moonscaped hillside, hoping to find his way toward some tasty greens.


A small group of caribou organizing a fraction of what will become a bigger winter herd. Caribou start congregating in early fall, and their group sizes grow as the cold season approaches. I perched upon a ridgeline by my lonesome late one night and watched a small herd of about forty of these charming ungulates slowly meander across the valley floor of the East Fork of the Toklat. A fine way to spend an August evening.



A large bull dressed in velvet loitering in good rutting habitat.


Two thousand pounds of herbivorous mammal on the move.