A view of Falls Creek Valley in Chugach State Park (Photo by Bill Sherwonit)
After a long series of gray, often rainy, and sometimes dreary days, a cloudless, deep-blue morning sky invites me into the Chugach Front Range east of Anchorage.
I head to Falls Creek Valley, where I hope to find enough “wild Chugach blues” to do some serious berry picking.
Accessible from the Seward Highway, the Falls Creek Trail doesn’t attract nearly as many people as most paths into Chugach State Park’s Front Range. But that’s part of its appeal to me.
Even on a bluebird autumn day like this, I’ll meet only three other humans during my 7½-hour hike, none of them berry pickers. Few people searching for tundra blues would take this route, which requires an ascent of more than 2,000 vertical feet, much of it along an overgrown, muddy, and crumbling trail.
Only the most dedicated hikers reach the alpine bowl where tundra blueberries grow. And there’s no guarantee they’ll be present in any abundance.
Unlike most pickers, I like to fill my containers as part of a larger adventure. Normally I’ll spend only a couple of hours gathering blueberries, on an outing that might last several hours.
Given my berry-picking philosophy, it’s no surprise that the prospect of berry riches is only part of what has drawn me to Falls Creek on this glorious autumn day. The valley, especially its upper reaches, ranks high among my favorite places.
Over the past couple of decades I’ve come here dozens of times, usually accompanied by a mountain-loving dog. First Coya, who died in 2012, and more recently Denali.
Sadly, for both her and me, Denali has “aged out” of long, strenuous hill climbs like these. Now 13, she lacks the stamina to do hours-long ascents on steep trails. Or at least that’s my judgement. If I were to ask her, I’m sure she’d indicate she’s game.
I can see the disappointment in Denali’s eyes and body language when I grab my pack and assure her, “I’ll be back soon.” The hardest moments are those heading out the door. Sadness wells, accompanied by hints of guilt despite knowing it’s for the best, leaving my best-hiking-companion-ever behind.
Memories of our adventures together reveal themselves, off and on, throughout my ascent, along with questions about my own aging body. Now in my mid-seventies, with arthritic shoulders and right knee, neuropathy (manifested in me by tingling numbness) creeping up my legs, and my own diminished stamina, I wonder how long I’ll be able to reach high places I once routinely visited.
I feel slow, my legs heavy, while ascending the lower sections of trail, which are among the route’s steepest. Despite what feels like a snail’s pace, I reach the alpine bench that opens into the valley’s upper bowl in just over two hours. That’s a decent time for an old guy, I smile to myself.
Once in the alpine bowl, I begin my hunt. The berries that I find are small, though firm and juicy, and widely scattered. My quart container fills slowly, while red and maroon leaves fill my hands, along with the purplish-blue fruits.
I’m about ready to call it quits when I notice a spot with bigger and more abundant berries. My second container fills much more quickly.
I’ve brought a third one, but two seems a good compromise on this glorious afternoon. I’d rather lounge a while, relish the distant presence of Dall sheep and the bright tundra tapestry, a gorgeous blend of yellows, oranges, reds, and purples. And yes, the azure sky and the bright and warming afternoon sun.
While sipping hot tea and munching snacks, I turn my gaze to the high country around me, places I’ve been and may some day return. More memories of Denali surface, a blend of hikes when she roamed this high country, grinning happily, in all her glory. “Hey girl, I miss you,” I say, and wonder if my thoughts can somehow reach her.
Finally I begin my departure from the high valley, stopping frequently to take in the place and all that it means.
Returning home, I embrace Denali and wonder: from the smells on body and clothes, can she sense the path I’ve taken and the places I’ve visited? If so, do they trigger memories of a valley and surrounding high places we once explored together, with great exuberance?
My love of Falls Creek Valley is inextricably connected to my experiences there with both Denali and Coya. And yes, the blueberries too. With a complicated mix of emotions, I whisper “thanks” that I’m still able to reach the high places where those wild blues offer both physical and spiritual nourishment.
