Panning For Gold Near Mt. McKinley
Some memories are worth more than gold.
I grew up on a homestead in Eagle River, Alaska, which wasn’t as exciting as you may expect. Yes, gorgeous scenery and lots of peace and quiet. But mostly the inconveniences of no water, plumbing, or electricity.
And then there was Breakup, the season after winter and before summer: mud, a tangle of bogs, swamps, and boot-sucking goo.
When I read books by Jack London and poems by Robert Service, life seemed more exciting back in the days of the Nome Gold Rush. Of course, to a dog-crazy kid of ten, traveling via dog sled sounded fun.
Frostbite? Starvation? The heartache of unfulfilled dreams? I never thought about things like that. But I knew finding gold nuggets would solve my parents' worries about money.
As you can see on the map below, the original trail from the Port of Seward and on to Nome went through Crow’s Pass at the head of Eagle River Valley.
I could see Raven Glacier from our home on the mountain and imagine the procession of miners. The trail, later known as the Iditarod, follows the routes of Alaskan indigenous people before colonists and fortune-hunters began using it in 1908.
So, when I was eleven, and my best friend’s family invited me on a two-week expedition to their gold claim, I was ready. It impressed me that they had a gold claim since I figured the gold would have all been found by 1964.
Thinking back, 1908 was less than fifty years before I was born and doesn’t seem nearly as ‘long ago’ to me now.
I’d read Call of the Wild, White Fang, and the Silver Chief books.
I memorized the words of Robert Service. Images from these stories filled my mind. The legends of the Yukon, the Klondike, and Alaska merged into images I wanted to experience.
And their claim was near what was then known as Mt. McKinley, a place of legend for all Alaskans.
My friend’s family had included me on their trips before. We spent a week in Homer the summer before — fishing, boating, and enjoying halibut fried fresh on the beach.
My family had no time or money for vacations—that was for sure.
For a moment, I wished my younger sister could come. I’d seen her sad face when Mom dropped me off that morning.
“When will you be back?” she kicked the dirt with one sneaker, not looking at me.
“In a couple of weeks. Mr. Hansen has to put in a lot of work to keep his claim. You can read my new Black Stallion book while I’m gone,” I said, hoping to make her smile.
“Okay, I’ll miss you, though,” she sniffed slightly.
I pushed thoughts of my younger sister away.
The Hansens were providing all the food and gear.
The night before, I’d packed my duffel bag. Pulling my shoebox of treasures out of my drawer, I picked out the dented Velvet tobacco tin.
Sister and I were disappointed when Dad switched to a tobacco brand in a foldover pouch. The tins were perfect for all the essentials I needed.
I’d prepared my survival gear with knowledge gained from my brother’s Boy’s Life magazine and Mark Trail books. Wooden matches dipped in paraffin to make them waterproof? Check. My fishing leader with a trout-sized hook? I wrapped the nylon filament around the matches; check. A whistle to blow if I got lost? Check.
And my biggest prize, a pocket knife I’d found embedded in the muddy road by Moose Lake last year. Yep — cleaned, oiled, and ready to go. I added two bandaids and snapped the lid shut, tucking the can in with my clothes.
Mrs. Hansen greeted me, “Toss your duffel bag over there. Jack’s loading up.”
Used to pitching in, I hefted a couple of heavy Army green duffel bags from the pile over to the car. It seemed strange to me that Ella’s parents didn’t expect her to do any chores, though she was ten.
In my family, we were expected to pull our weight.
Of course, I was a year older and six inches taller than Ella and muscular from toting five-gallon cans of water. Ella’s younger brother, Sam, was only five.
I didn’t see how the mountain of supplies fit in the Mercedes Benz sedan, an elegant and unlikely choice for Alaska. The trunk was packed, and Mr. Hansen had added a car-top carrier to hold the gear overflow.
On our last trip, he’d bragged, “You can run into a moose in this car, and it will keep on going.”
The deep green car matched the spruce’s shadowy limbs, and I wondered if all vehicles in Europe matched the forests. I figured they had a foreign car since her parents were from Sweden.
My dad said he’d always been a Chevy man until he came to Alaska and switched to Jeeps.
Mrs. Hansen cooked with real butter and served crisp rye crackers.
Most impressive to me were the sardines that reminded me of little corpses lined up in a small metal coffin when her mom twirled back the cover with the attached key. They smelled terrible, but I figured these were all exotic Swedish delicacies along with the jam-filled Christmas cookies. At our house, it was oleo, saltines, and tuna fish.
At Ella’s, we could get a snack from the cookie jar whenever we wanted, and there was plenty of food. But, of course, with a family of five kids, second helpings weren’t likely.
During our early years in Alaska, Mom packed us all up in the station wagon in the late summer and headed out to the Alaska State Fair. It was held every year in Palmer, an hour north of Eagle River.
Driving down the Alcan highway to Santa Fe a year earlier, we’d passed through the Yukon Territory, stopping in Dawson Creek. I’d seen Robert Service’s cabin and the paddle wheelers on the Yukon River. I loved everything about Alaska, and I was eager for more wilderness and history.
We kids sat in the back seat, our feet propped on sleeping bags.
Heading north down the familiar route, we drove through Palmer and on to Wasilla, Willow, and Susitna.
Hours later, we pulled into a parking area where a good-sized bulldozer and a utility trailer waited. After loading the supplies, Mr. Hansen drove the Cat, pulling the trailer. Mrs. Hansen and we kids perched on top of the supplies as our little expedition followed a narrow road up a long grade into the mountains.
Photo by Dillon Groves on Unsplash
This far north, the trees faded away; only scattered poplars with golden fall leaves beginning to show dotted the creek banks. The short bushes of the tundra, the low terrain of the sub-Arctic, allowed us to see for miles. Down along the river, palomino-colored grizzlies fished, putting on fat for winter. Mr. Hansen pulled over so we could watch the bears swatting crimson salmon out of the water with one paw.
The sun slanted behind the hills as a small cabin came into view, perched on a steep slope. An experienced homesteader, Mrs. Hansen, soon had supper cooking on a Coleman stove inside. Ella and I ran up and down the hills chasing marmots, small animals like groundhogs that perched outside their burrows whistling at us.
Supper over, we sat around a campfire toasting marshmallows.
Sam nestled on his dad’s lap, and Mrs. Hansen noticed Ella shiver. She draped a blanket around her daughter and pulled her close. For a moment, I wondered what it would be like to have only one brother and a mother who never yelled. I almost wished I was an orphan; maybe they’d adopt me. I could do the dishes, take care of the rabbits, and play with Sam.
I’d always be helpful and never whine. I’d miss my sisters and brothers, but it was a tempting daydream.
My marshmallow burst into flame, demanding attention. I jerked it out of the fire, blew out the embers, and removed the charred brittle skin, revealing the melted sugary inside. Yummy! This was life.
Bellies full, Ella and I climbed into the top bunk of a sturdy bed, and Kim fell asleep on the lower bed.
Two weeks disappeared in a flash.
The adults did grownup stuff, and we stayed out of the way.
We followed Mr. Hansen as he drove the Cat down into a nearby ravine where a sluice operation was set up. Fascinated, we watched as he joined a group of other miners in the area. First, they moved dirt and mud onto a contraption where the diverted creek water would wash away the biggest rocks and gravel. Then, using gold pans, they swished the sediment in creek water, looking for gold nuggets or even dust.
Image by the author on canva.com
Mr. Hansen kept a rifle close, and Ella’s mom wore a revolver on her hip in case a grizzly showed up. But all the bears must have been fattening up on the salmon down in the valley since marmots were the only wildlife we saw.
We bounced over the springy tundra, picking the last of the late-season blueberries and sitting on boulders, soaking up the sun. Ella and I spent hours engrossed in reading The Lord of the Rings and discussing our favorite parts. We spent entire afternoons playing cards and doing nothing at all.
I was in that contented space between childhood and adolescence, not yet consumed with the mysterious world of boys.
Ella and I tried panning for gold, and I found a decent chip, which I nestled in a tissue and tucked into my Velvet tobacco tin. It was fascinating to watch Mr. Hansen mix various chemicals, add the gold dust, and separate the dull shimmery metal from the iron dust.
Gradually, he filled a small glass jar with precious yellow flakes and tiny pebbles.
In the morning, frost coated the bushes.
Finally, it was time to head for home; school would start soon.
“Roll your sleeping bags, kids,” Mrs. Hansensaid, “The plane will be here to fly us out in an hour.” Plane? I had no idea this expedition would include my first flight in a bush plane.
Mr. Hansen had driven the Cat up to the mining site with plans to leave it for the other men to use until freeze-up hit the mountains. Then, he’d arranged for a pilot to fly us back to where we’d left the car.
Right on time, we heard the familiar chug-chug of a small plane. A red and white Cessna swooped low over the cabin before banking and landing on a flat bit of tundra at the bottom of the slope.
There was less gear now than when we arrived, having eaten all the food, I supposed. Mr. Hansen sat next to the pilot with Sam on his lap. Mrs. Hansen and I squeezed into the narrow back seat, Ella on my lap.
The pilot taxied, then darted into the air like a dragonfly.
Spellbound, I gazed at the tundra below and a herd of caribou, startled by the plane. What had taken hours to travel at bulldozer pace zipped past. Soon, we touched down and clambered out, stretching our cramped legs.
Dad drove down to the Hansen’s, bringing me and my duffel of filthy clothes home. Mom always said I acted like a brat when I came home from spending time with my friend. She said I got spoiled, and I expect I did brag about the never-ending supply of comic books and cookies.
But, on the other hand, I loved the sense of calm and predictability of their house. My stomach was never tight with the fear of making mistakes, being too noisy, or eating more than my share.
Mom raised her voice in a mocking tone. “Rita. Rita. Rita. I’m so sick of hearing about Rita Hansen! Last year, she invited your dad over for dinner when we were in Santa Fe. I think she has her eye out for him. And you come home and talk about her cooking and how she spoils you. I don’t want to hear another word, or that’s the last time I let you go anywhere with them.”
Somewhere over the years, I lost my flake of gold.
But I still have those memories of Mt. McKinley and the happy times I spent with the Hansen family. They included me in some incredible Alaskan adventures.
But even more valuable than the chance to re-visit history was the glimpse into a more peaceful life and a vision that family didn’t have to mean chaos.
Thanks, Mr. and Mrs. Hansen. I wish I’d told you how much you meant to me during that long ago Alaskan summer.