A soldier stood at the pearly gate, his face was wan and old. He kindly asked the man of fate admission to the fold. "What have you done?" St. Peter asked, "to gain admission here?" "I've been in the Aleutians for nigh unto a year!" Then the gate swung open sharply as St. Peter tolled the bell. "Come in," said he, "and take a harp, you've had your share of hell!"
Unknown
Adak Island, to those who have been here is known as: "The Birthplace of the Winds." Today the weather on the island is living up to its Aleutian reputation. The wind screams off Shagak Bay at a steady fifty knots and my ears are deafened by its' roar. The snow and sleet make the wind even worse. The frozen glass like crystals sting fiercely against my exposed face as I watch the steady shifting wall of white move in front of me in a harsh horizontal pattern.
I button the top of my Navy issue extreme weather parka and pull the fur rimmed hood low over my head, trying my best toward off the winter squall. The label on the coat states waterproof and windproof, but today the wind finds every open nook and the snow and sleet, as if they themselves want to escape the winter storm, crawl inside. Fortunately, the insulation in the coat still keeps my body warm.
Fighting for each step, I force myself into the wind as it furiously works against me, doing its best to drive me back and topple me over. I walk bent at the waist, using my upper body as a wedge to gain ground in the wind. My feet trudge slowly along the rocky shore of the bay and I stay just out of reach of the rough, foamy, water, using the shoreline to guide me home.
On a good day the walk would take me a couple of hours, but today the time has doubled, and there are several miles still to go. The fully prime Russian Blue Fox in my pack reminds me of the reward I am receiving for my efforts this day.
I'm not worried about the extra time I am spending in the bay today. I have pulled all my traps, and I know I will probably never make it back to this spot again. I am determined to enjoy the rugged, remote, isolation the best I can. In a few weeks I will be transplanted from the island to the hustle and bustle of Southern California.
I make my way to the leeward side of a grassy knoll, to escape from the relentless striking of the wind and snow and sleet. For an hour I nestle into the soft brown tundra grass to take a breather, eat a snack, and wait for a hopeful break in the weather. As I rest the skies to the west empty of clouds and the snow and sleet fade away. That's the way with the storms here; They can move in on you without warning and last for days, or they can disappear as quickly as they came.
I know the break in the weather could be just a short lull, and I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. I climb to the top of the knoll and look down upon the bay. Twenty miles to the west, Kanaga Island rises from the Bering Sea. The volcanic island had erupted several months before -- blowing away part of its' cylinder.
Smoke and ash still steam from its' crater in a a heavy stream. The evening sun beyond it glows brightly and the sunlight filtering through the smoke and ash colors the sky into countless hues of crimson, violet, and blue. For a long while I sit on the knoll, taking in the scene and reflecting on my days on the trapline and wildlife I have seen.
A lone harbor seal was wintering over in the bay, and seemed to be notably fond of a remote stretch of rocky beach I walked. From a safe distance in the water the seal kept me company, swimming along with the pace of my walking, barking out at me as I strode the shore. If I stopped too long to watch him, he would sink into the ocean and wait to join me again only after I resumed my march along the bay.
Further down the beach, a boulder as big as a house rested upon the edge of the ocean. Often, a mature bald eagle perched atop the boulder like a king, watching me curiously as I approached. Unafraid of me from his safe vantage, the big bird would allow me to close the distance between us to mere yards before he would soar across the bay to another of his lofty perches.
Once, as I stood beside the boulder, I watched in awe as he glided low and easy across the bay and splashed his huge talons down into the salt and snatched out an unsuspecting fish. Without a doubt he was the most patient and graceful fisherman I had ever seen.
My trapline consisted of only fours sets, three of which connected with four Russian Blue Fox. All of the sets I made were simple dirt holes with a fish oil attractant. I didn't go to great lengths to conceal my scent: Aleutian winters are harsh and the fox get hungry. Trappers on the island were scarce, too. I only knew of one other trapper and his trapline was on the other side of the island. The fox just weren't very educated about traps.
Russsian Blue Fox aren't native to the Aleutians Islands. Russian fur traders released them to most of the islands beginning in the 1830's when Alaska belonged to them. The fox adapted well, and have taken a heavy toll on the native waterfowl. At one point over the years the fox had nearly eaten the Aleutian Canadian Goose into extinction.
My best set was a dirt hole at the base of a World War II machine gun bunker built onto a long narrow peninsula of rock and tundra that protected Shagak Bay from the ever-pounding waves of the Bering Sea.
To a Midwestern boy this thin spit of land seemed otherwordly. Standing there, at what seemed to me to be the end of the earth -- I found it hard to believe there was any other place more wild and desolate. Mighty waves of the Bering Sea crashed in and pulled away at the spit, tossing and rolling large sea polished stones as they came and went. The sound of the roaring waves and clashing stones melted together with the salty wind in an untamed symphony.
Though Adak was never occupied by Japanese forces during World War II, nearby islands were and the airfields built here in the fall of 1942 by U.S. Navy Seabees, Army Engineers, and Infantrymen made it possible for American Forces to drive the Japanese from the islands in less than a year. The Aleutian campaign is mostly forgotten now, but some of the battles waged here were as fierce as any in the Pacific War.
I can't imaginge how difficult it must have been for the men living that first winter in their makeshift shelters, much less trying to conduct a war. The past two years I'd walked their old meandering trails past foxholes and dilapidated weathered shacks. Rusted, dulled, punji sticks and barbed wire still crossed the tundra hillsides, a constant reminder of the violent past.
I could have stayed on the grassy knoll for a lot longer and enjoyed the view, but the sun was quickly sinking and it seemed as if the cold Bering Sea was swallowing it up and putting out its' flame. I reminded myself of the fur handling chores that remained to be done and unwillingly turned my back on the bay one last time.
With my dream of running an Alaskan trapline finally realized, I walked up the mountain pass back towards the base. Even though I knew I would never be back, I understood fully how such a wilderness can grow in a person. You may leave it, but it will never leave you.
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| The bay where I trapped in the winter and fished in the summer. |
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| Just back from the trapline. I used the mountain bike as my transportation. |
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| The volcano was still smoking and sputtering the day I left the island. |
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| A prime Russian Blue Fox. |
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| The machine-gun bunker. Notice the GI's shovel still leaning against the bunker -- sixty years later! |
