By In June of 2017 my friends and I semi-naively stumbled into the world of wilderness packraft traverses. We had been developing the independent skills for some years (Wilderness travel, advanced navigation, whitewater safety) but had not applied them together to really get after it. Thus, in June 2017 things finally came together to form the Skolai-Nizina Packraft Traverse.
A connection with Alaska had led me on several occasions to Wrangell St. Elias National Park. It’s the largest national park in the system however sparsely visited compared to the likes of it’s brothers to the South. Between 2010-2013 the area had called me back again and again and we had traveled both of the two long remote roads permitting cars into the park, The McCarthy and Nabesna Roads. In 2014 I had the privilege of visiting the area from the air on a multi day flight with my father in through the Wrangells, to McCarthy, then out through the St. Elias Range and the Bagley Icefield. It would be the aerial photos from this trip that would inspire and form the backbone of the later 2018 Ice Route Traverse.
The 2017 Skolai-Nizina Packraft Traverse was my debut and introduction to exploration and wilderness traverses in Alaska. On that traverse we bridged two routes that had both previously been described elsewhere with a narrow section of travel that was unknown. Honestly, as someone who was completely naive to off-trail travel in Alaska, I found facing the uncertainty and decision making of exploration liberating. In all, the Skolai Nizina Traverse was 4 days and about 50 miles in total. When it was over all I could think was more, longer, further.
The winter of 2018 I really dug into topographical maps and satellite imagery with the objective of synthesizing the next big thing. In Wrangell-St. Elias much of it came down to: where can you and where cant you land a bush plane. This led me to evaluate Iceberg Lake, a seasonal body of water that sits right on the edge of the expansive Bagley Icefield. I was peripherally aware of the area from a documented traverse named the Seven Pass Route in that vicinity but after getting a small taste of exploration in 2017, I really wanted something a bit more unique, something with more glacier.
My first draft was tundra hiking from Iceberg lake then South down the Bremmner Glacier to its terminus to packraft out the Tana back to McCarthy…. Then came the discovery of a packrafter death on the Tana River…. Intimidation.
Maybe cross the Bremmner Glacier then down a fork of the Bremmner River? Lots of internet combing… The Bremmner has been done in hardshell kayaks. It’s WAY WAY out of my league. Back to the drawing board….
Maybe cross the Bremmner Glacier, to the Wernicke, then down to the Copper? Looks like it goes on the topos and satellite. More internet/mapping time…Bingo. The 2014 Alaska Wilderness Classic had done something similar in the same vicinity but in reverse. It turns out that maybe 2/3rds of what I had been planning HAD been visited by the select few participating in the Classic but there were still some unknowns, and two rivers to packraft that were essentially unknown. I found it! This would be the real deal…
In the weeks prior to the traverse I spent time strategizing how to cut weight, what to bring, what to leave. I also did research regarding strategies for monitoring food consumption. Eat too much too fast, run out early. I partitioned my food out into defined lots to ensure that I didn’t exceed my rations. I contemplated contingencies, bailout points. I religiously checked the Snowtel station at the Tana Knob to watch snow melt progress. I drafted and submitted a rough letter of intent, gear list, and itinerary to the Park Service and Wrangell Mountain Air. In the days prior to launch the group had a sobering discussion on our objectives in order of priority, safety protocols, redundancy, and plan…and then the time came. The homework had been done, the I’s dotted, the T’s crossed.
The team landed in Anchorage and regrouped at the Lubeck household. Problem….
It was discovered that the Copper River is flowing at it’s 99th percentile. (Historic flows). Intense rain and subsequent unseasonal snowmelt had resulted in historic runoffs that could not have been predicted. Weeks earlier it had resulted in the death of two individuals in the Wrangells traversing North of our intended route who were washed away on an attempted stream crossing. What does this mean for our intended descent of the Copper River? More importantly, what does this translate to regarding possible stream crossings? Despair…. Scrambling… Phonecalls… Uncertainty…
After some shrewd research, Cammie had discovered that the Copper River was probably not an issue. We had all recently spent time on big water in Grand Canyon and the feared solitary Abercrombie Rapid, even at 7-10 feet tall probably wouldn’t have been out the question. Andy’s concerns lay more in the Wernicke (first descent?), coming off the Bremner towards the Fan Glacier (First Descent?) and the numerous potential stream crossings, all reasonable thoughts. Doubts were so strong that I was worried the whole grand plan was dead on arrival.
We proceeded with caution on the drive to McCarthy with little but questions to fuel us. When we crossed the Copper at Chitina it seemed surprisingly calm. High, yes. Catastrophic Armageddon, no. Perhaps I just didn’t have proper expectations of what we would see that day, but the sight of the Copper River did instill confidence that this whole thing might actually happen. After discussion that plan was to fly in as scheduled the following morning and proceed with a low threshold for enacting a contingency bailout plan.
The next morning the weather certainly was exceeding the forecast. We met with the bush pilot. He was unable to grant a request to fly in over the Bremner vicinity, allowing for aerial scouting which had proved so valuable in 2017 while on approach to Iceberg Lake. Unfortunately the weather was not as good to the South and required us to follow the Tana River. In retrospect I suppose this allowed everything to remain a surprise as we advanced, so perhaps a blessing?
The bushplane departed. In 2017 at Skolai Pass this had been a very sobering experience but a year later, now on the sandy former lakebed of Iceberg Lake, a bit of the shock and awe had worn off. As the Cessna lumbered down the old lakebed and stretched into the air, I distinctly remember the echo-y reverberation of the engine off of the amphitheater walls around Iceberg Lake being an inspiring sound. Adventure…at last.
We made quick work heading south crossing over a small valley glacier and some very very wet, spongy tundra. Whatever dream of dry, comfortable feet I had been clinging to was now shattered. Late in the day we sat near a small creek in view of potential campsites sprawling out in the distance. Recall that the tundra was extraordinarily wet, meaning, to set up camp just anywhere would mean 2 inches of water inside your tent. Just then something light brown caught my eye in the distance. I snapped to attention, squinted, and then glassed the telephoto zoom lens over the area. It’s a rock…phew. Then the rock rolled over. And then it stretch it’s massive furry rock feet towards the sky. Not a rock….definitely a bear…directly where we were intending to camp. We gave it (and it’s friend) a wide berth and passed by. Unfortunately, putting meaningful distance between camp and the bears was unrealistic for two reasons 1) to go further would mean camping in the uncomfortable moraine with questionable ability to set up a tent, and 2) it was the end of the day and everyone was reaching exhaustion. In all honesty, I was less concerned about bear attack and more worried about a bear thieving our 9 days of food on day #1, thus aborting our trip. In the absence of any trees to hang food from, I countered this problem by tying one end of our 100ft rope to the corner of my tent, ran the rope out to its maximum distance and I tied the other end to our food. The hope with this strategy was I would be alerted that a critter was making off with our food…and then the mace would fly. As it turns out the bears were not even remotely interested in being in our vicinity and were not intrigued by our human food, but were rather content with lumbering along down the tundra looking for the plentiful berries.
The next day we crossed the Bremner Glacier. Accessing the glacier proved to be the only big challenge. A range torrent of water coming down from the glacial lake serves and uncrossable moat until it suddenly dives deep underneath the glacier. At some point in the future this ice bridge may collapse and really complicate accessing the Bremner. On the Bremner, we must have jumped over 200 crevasses throughout that day, however the crossing of the Bremner Glacier itself was quite straightforward. The topography of the area is absolutely stunning where 7-8000ft peaks explode from this expansive sea of ice. As the day drew on, it became painfully obvious how far we really still had to go to get off this beast and by the time we reached the moraine fields everyone was starting to drag. As a side note, due to the grand scale of the landscape here things that seem quite large and close are, in fact, not… They’re very large, and not in the slightest bit close.
The following morning we completed what I have to believe is the first decent of the upper section of the Middle Fork of the Bremner River as we literally rafted off the terminus of the glacier. It immediately became painfully obvious that the satellite images had been a bit misleading about the complexity of running this river. Due to the consequences of a lost boat, we elected to portage numerous rapids, only seldomly mustering the courage to run a gauntlet or two. By late afternoon we had finally battled our way past a handful of serious rapids and quite a bit of flatwater to the take-out adjacent to the Fan Glacier. Under a light sprinkle (to help boost morale) we ascended the Fan moraine, then Glacier.
After living out the Atari game Frogger navigating through a gnarled section of broken cracks and then enduring a long slog up the Fan Glacier, we approached what we would later call “Elbow Camp” that sat on the moraines between the the Fan and Wernicke Glaciers. Now very late in the day, it once again became painfully obvious that what looks very close in Alaska is actually almost always very very far away, an artifact of the grand scale here. I was pleasantly surprised to see that the snow line, something that I had fretted about for days, was covering the ice just barely at our high point on the Fan Glacier. We made the mistake of coming too close to “Elbow Lake” that fractured the previously smooth and straightforward glacier progressively into a convoluted crevasse field. We finally came to a road block in which glacier was covered by snow over potential crevassing. I remember it being a bit devastating due to the unfortunate timing because it would required rope, harness, and yet more time. It was now hour 12 or 13 and almost midnight (although completely light) with camp a stonesthrow away. Everyone was exhausted but we took the time to be safe, throw in an ice screw for protection and belay across the potential crevasse snowbridge. I crested out over the nearby high point, again played Frogger in a crevasse field attempting to hopscotch on bare ice only (thus not necessitating rope) to get a view of moraine and possible camp. Finally I got it…and there it ways in the distance: a nice little sandy beach in a sea of wet glacial moraine anarchy right next to “Elbow Lake”. As I walked towards it I remember desperately hoping that I would not step on this beach only to find that it was liquidy quicksand. Fortunately when I planted that foot on firm ground, it marked dinnertime and the end of a big big day.
The next day we woke up to the (expected) poor weather/rain. The glorious mountains previously visible the previous night were now socked in a mere 200 feet above ground level. Blerg. After a short period of deliberation, we elected to press on despite the poor weather as not to sacrifice our extra buffer day. In retrospect I halfway regret this decision because it would have been wonderful to experience more time in this region in better weather.
The pleasant surprise that we had encountered regarding the dreaded snowline was quickly nullified as we proceeded to ascend another 200 vertical feet up from Elbow Lake to the Wernicke into solid snowfield on glacier. In some senses it was nice to have a definitive need for rope & harness (since we carried them all this way). I assumed that the snow line would be just on the other side of the knoll at the same elevation on the Wernicke Glacier as it was . WRONG! As it turns out…weather that comes barreling up from the Gulf of Alaska travels up the lowland river valley of the Copper River….it hangs a right up the Wernicke Valley and plows the Wernicke Glacier where it deposits much much more snow than the Fan or Bremner Glaciers experience. We postholed through deep snow down another 1000 vertical feet that translated to 5-6 horizontal sloggy miles. Sure glad we brought the crevasse kit because those conditions would have absolutely required bailing out back down to the Fan Glacier airstrip. Lesson learned…
We camped that night at the snow line on the ice of the Wernicke. Wet, cold feet were the motif of the day and as soon as the tents went up I didn’t see Andy the rest of the night.
We awoke the following morning to sunny weather and GLORIOUS views. The foggy snow slog that we had gone through the preceding day was now visible in all of its glory. We spent the morning drying gear out and basking in the views/sun. The rest of the Wernicke Glacier was quite straightforward…right up until the extensive moraine. We hugged the far right-down glacier side. It remains to be seen whether this was a wise choice as we ran the gauntlet of rockfall and landslides in glacier purgatory, a dreadful place between the glacier and the valley bedrock.
After camping a night at the buggy, bear-filled terminus of the Wernicke Glacier, the river paddled at a class II level, yielding to Class I with obstacles closer to the Copper. Nothing surprising on, what was to my knowledge, a first descent. It amazingly feels a little like Jurassic Park in that region with tall vertical (limestone?) walls covered in greenery. At last we finally met the Copper River which, unbenounced to us had dropped from its 99% percentile flow rate to below the annual average and dropped 5 vertical feet in the time that it had taken us to get to it. The Copper still flowed at a shocking 8mph and we ended up completing in 6 hours what I had slated 2 full days for.
The Abercrombie Rapid, what we later learned Andy had secretly been fretting about for the entire trip, was a cakewalk compared to the Grand Canyon big water that we were all recently accustomed to.
We paddled under the Million Dollar Bridge (AKA Miles Glacier Bridge), a remnant of the glory mining days of the area around the turn of the century. This bridge had been a connection from the Copper rich hills of the Kennecot Mines (McCarthy) and the steamships of Cordova. In the 1964 earthquake, the 4th span of bridge collapsed into the water and wasn’t fully repaired until 2005 after it was determined that the famous Copper River salmon runs (and fisheries) were impacted by its presence. We were fortunate enough to get a very insightful lesson on salmon runs (or the lack thereof) by the USFWS staff at their research post at the Childs Glacier Recreation Area.
The lower Cooper River became very braided and satellite imagery was useful to ensure that we were taking the correct turns.
We battled a bit of a headwind and the final miles required active paddling to keep forward momentum, but finally there was the radio tower marking the highway and civilization.
By 
