A Rough Hike on the Chilkoot

When I decided to hike the Chilkoot Trail—a 33-mile journey straddling the border of Alaska and Canada’s Yukon Territory—no one could have prepared me for what lay ahead. I was an active 23-year old and had managed a tough hike only days before. I was in decent shape. No need to train for a touristy hike like this one.

After a long day of drinking, a couple of my friends threw out an idea: let's hike the Chilkoot and get back for work by Tuesday. With the dull threat of a hangover dragging my sleep-deprived body, I would have been wise to reconsider making a journey like this in under 24 hours, but hey, it's Alaska. You go on adventures, you suffer the consequences, you have stories to tell, and that's exactly what I got in return.

2011 boasted some of the century's worst trail conditions. Hitherto flat, dry paths were now flooded with waist-high rivers we couldn't avoid—something we would've learned had we registered for the hike, but the park ranger's station had closed, and we were committed to go anyway. 

 

Even in the Land of the Midnight Sun, starting a hike at 7 p.m. isn't advisable. With only a rain jacket, a day's worth of food, and my Chacos, we left our house and drove to the Chilkoot trailhead.

When you're that far north, the sun sets later than normal, and tonight it wouldn't be dark until about 11 p.m. That's when I started to feel tired—really tired. I needed rest, but I wouldn't get it. 

 

The Chilkoot Trail ended at the Bennett Lake train station where we would get a hot meal and hitch a ride back to Skagway. In order to make the train, though, we had to hike through the night. 

 

The sky grew orange as the sun descended. If anything happened to us out here, no one would be looking for us until long afterward.

From the outset, the trail was wet and mushy. It grew worse and worse until, finally, we just had to wade into a river and trudge upstream for a couple miles. We even kicked salmon that swam aimlessly in place as their bodies deteriorated following the mating season. 

It started to drizzle, rendering our headlamps useless as the light reflected off the beads of water inches in front of us. As darkness overtook us, I experienced fatigue I hadn't felt before. I was delirious—we all were. 

 

About 12 miles in, we reached a campsite, and we couldn't help but take off our backpacks and rest. There were only benches to sleep on, but it was enough. We fell asleep instantly.

The silence of the night was broken by my friend's yell. "A mouse just crawled across my face!" We might have laughed if were weren't so exhausted, but the adrenaline jolted us enough to put our packs back on and walk back out into the wet night.

After a few more miles, we heard the far-off roar of a powerful river. It was too dark to see any path to a bridge, but we knew the trail put us on the other side of the water. We awaited the turn that would take us across, but it never came. The path just went further and further uphill, growing steeper with each step.

We eventually stopped at the base of a huge, granite rock, and in our delirium, decided to scale it. Granite is slippery when wet, and the fine mist in the air made for a treacherous climb. With each handhold and footstep, I wondered how we ended up here. It couldn't be right. I was scared and nervous, desperate for a sign that we were on the right track.

Suddenly, my sandal slipped off the rock. “Shit!” I yelled. Only my fingers kept me from plummeting onto the sharp rocks below. I wanted to cry as despair took hold.

"Where the hell are we?" I called out, but no one answered. I kept climbing until I reached the flat top. We agreed that this couldn't be the trail, but all we could do was inch our way closer to the river, not knowing how to cross it. Just then, we spotted a cairn in the distance—a trail marker. We were back!

Back in 1898, eager gold rushers made their way to the Canadian border in hopes of making a fortune in Yukon Territory's Dawson City—most of them never would. As history tells it, Canadian Mounties like Sam Steele strictly enforced a rule requiring all travelers to have a year's supply of goods before entering the country—about 2,000 pounds of equipment. For the nearly 100,000 hopeful travelers, that meant numerous trips up and down the Chilkoot.

One of the trail's most iconic features is the Golden Staircase—the final, grueling ascent just before crossing the border, made up of sharp, car-sized boulders. 

 

In the wintertime, the pass is covered with snow. Undeterred by weather, the gold rushers got clever. By chipping the ice and snow out into stairs, their horses could climb the pass in the winter, but it was no walk in the park. 

 

The steep climb takes hours, and after 15 miles of walking, it's the last thing you want to do in the middle of a fatigued night. Our legs could hardly take it.

After climbing for some time, we spotted a sign marker. Was it the halfway point? Were we finished with the hard part?

“You guys,” my friend said, reading the sign, “we haven’t even started the Golden Staircase. This is the base.”

My whole body went numb, like that feeling you get when you're caught stealing—the cold sweat that comes with shallow breaths and elevated heart rate. Were we any closer to home, I would have turned around. My hip flexors were so tired that I could barely lift my legs, and now I had to climb the steepest section in suffocating darkness.

Our progress was slow. We could only climb a rock or two before sitting down to catch our breath. My friends could hike faster than me, allowing them to fall asleep here and there, but I was too slow to rest.

As we climbed higher, fog thickened, making it impossible to see. Every step I took stabbed my groin muscles with reminders of how difficult it was to move. I really didn't think I could make it, but the sun began to rise. We made it to the top.

There, waving gracefully in the purple and orange of the still morning, was the Canadian flag. The rest of the trail was gradually downhill. Just 15 more miles to go.

I wallowed in all sorts of depression. I wanted to be back in my bed—not to sleep, just to lie down. How was I so out of shape? Why did I drink so much last night? I needed to rest. All the while, I trudged along without any sense of where I was.

My legs didn't work anymore. I could only plant one leg and swing the other a few inches forward. My friends walked ahead, then rested while they waited for me. I let them take my backpack, but it didn't help. There wasn't much in my pack anyway.

“So, Dallin, here’s how it is: we need to move faster, or we’re not gonna make the train,” my friend said. The train was scheduled to leave around 2:30 p.m., and it was our only way back. There was no time to rest. 

 

We passed hikers who were just waking up. I thought we were making good time, but after a few more catch-ups, my luck ran out. There, propped up against a rock, was my backpack with the word "sorry" written in the dirt next to it. 

Honestly, I was relieved. All I wanted to to eat, nap, and stop worrying about slowing my friends down. The scenery up there is without equal. Crystal clear glacial rivers course lush forests and flow into emerald lakes.

I found a nice big rock to take off my pack and sit, eat a few peanuts, and sink into a deep sleep. That may have been the best sleep of my life.

About 45 minutes later, I awoke to rustling leaves. Lifting my head, I expected to see another hiker, but no one else was around, and that's when I spotted it.

Across the trail, a good-sized black bear sniffed through the bushes. It hadn't spotted me yet, but my overwhelming odor would certainly change that. 

 

My heart raced. All I knew was I couldn't startle this bear. Never startle a bear—they're more likely to attack out of fear, so I didn't make any sudden movements.

Attached to my backpack was a bell on a carabiner so that as you walk, the local wildlife hear the noise and know someone's coming through. I picked it up slowly and shook it at a whisper until it was loud enough to hear. The bear would find me no matter what, but by shaking this bell, I'd have some control over how the bear noticed me.

Sure enough, it looked up from the bushes—right at me, like a staring contest. Then, it started lumbering toward me. Shit. I stood up as fast as I could and started shuffling away. The bear followed. Shit. SHIT.

My survival instinct told me I was better off with a sharp rock and a big stick, so I armed myself. With my hip flexors out of action, it was easier to walk backward, so I dragged myself along the trail while keeping an eye on my pursuer. With nowhere to run and no bear spray, I was helpless. 

 

Most people think of bear attacks as a violent mauling where bones are smashed by 6-inch claws. There is some truth to that, and if it I'd been dealing with a grizzly bear, I probably wouldn't be telling this story. 

Black bears aren't so brutal. In the rare event that they attack a human, their mode of attack is to incapacitate. Maybe they'll take a chunk out of your leg before eating you alive, gnawing away at your most tender regions.

I moved as quickly as I could, only faster than a toddler just learning to walk. Eventually, I turned a sharp corner on the trail and saw a small bridge crossing a stream. I needed to face my fate, and here seemed as good a place as any to make my stand. 

 

The narrow walkway let me control the bear's angle of attack, so I could keep it in front of me while trying to smash it with a rock or poke it with a stick.

It was pointless to run away any longer. I was ready. I stood there on the bridge, focused on what was to come, but the bear never came. I heard rustling in the distance, but the bear never appeared again.

I didn't take any more breaks after that. I needed to get indoors. A train whistle blew in the distance. Either I was close to Bennett or I could now be sure I missed the train. After reading a trail marker, I learned that Bennett was about 7 miles away. The train was gone, and it bid farewell with the faint, rhythmic chugging of its wheels a few minutes later.

Things could have been worse. I still had some food, and missing the train just meant having to wait a day before getting back down to Skagway. A Canadian Park Service ranger passed me on the trail and asked how I was doing. I didn't want her to find out I was on the trail without a permit, so I just said I was fine and hurried along. Later on, I learned she was sent to find me.

I took it easy now, walking slowly, eating all my trail mix, and drinking as much water as I wanted. Bennett was empty when I reached it. The train was gone, and the wind was blowing. 

 

Other hikers who reached Bennett brought their own tents and food, but since I hadn't planned on sleeping there, I had nothing to weather the night. From either cold or fatigue, I started to shiver.

Maybe I could find help. I set my backpack down and walked around the city to find somebody. There was a light on in the White Pass & Yukon Route Railroad office—the company that ran the train back to Skagway. 

 

I knocked on the office door, and a stout man answered. I mumbled my way through my situation. "Could I use a phone to let my friends know I'm okay?" I asked. No, he said. The office was closed anyway, so there wasn't anyone there to answer the phone.

Skagway is the Tlingit word for “Great Wind,” and true to its name, the wind blew hard that night. I had to find shelter, an I didn't have any camping gear. There was a porch outside a ranger’s cabin, so I laid there hoping to get out of the wind, but it was useless. 

 

After a little snooping, I saw that the cabin had plastic windows. I made a small incision with my pocket knife and climbed inside. Just like the last cabin, there was only a wooden bench to sleep on, but it was enough. I passed out immediately, this time with no mice to disturb me.

The howling winds and my shivers of exhaustion woke me up for good around 4:30am. I had no food left, and I was in a world of pain. Standing up took so much effort, and my feet were bleeding from the sandals. I left the ranger's cabin to kill time by taking pictures around Bennett, leaving everything exactly as I found it—I didn’t want any Mounties upset that I broke into their cabin.

At around 7 a.m., I went to the White Pass office again and knocked on the door. This time, I was received with a pleasant greeting from a friendly woman. As soon as I explained my story, she knew who I was. Their Skagway office sent reports about me as early as yesterday afternoon. 

 

Why hadn't I knocked on her door then, she asked. I told her I did, and the other guy didn't help me. She apologized profusely upon hearing this.

She told me to get something to eat in the lodge. Thank god. I loaded up my plate and shoveled food into my mouth, chewing as fast as a sewing machine. 

 

As more hikers trickled into the dining hall, I overheard stories about some guy whose friends "ditched him on the trail.” They said the park rangers hadn't located him yet. My cheeks flushed. I wanted to get out of there before someone identified me.

A woman in the lodge asked about my hike. When did I start? Where was my group? As I told her about starting last night, the dining hall grew quiet. They put two and two together, and some suggested that I find a park ranger right away. Having just broken into their lodge, I was hesitant. I gestured with my index finger over my lips that I wanted my presence here to remain unknown. It didn't work.

As soon as I boarded the train, I saw a park ranger asking questions to the passengers. One of them pointed to me. I sank in my seat and tried to disappear, but it was too late. The ranger sat down next to me, and to my great relief, merely asked how I was doing. He radioed to base that he found me and that I safe before he shook my hand and left.

The train whistle blew. I leaned my head up against the window to try and sleep as the train lurched forward.