Bushwhacked by Anette Coggins

Something was missing in my story. It all just read like bla…bla, and it felt flat and dull. I was working on my nonfiction book, memoirs of Alaska, and many of my adventures were half a lifetime ago—like my trip to the Brooks Range in the summer of 1990. Back then, Angela and I had been hiking through the Gates of the Arctic, two young German immigrants and complete greenhorns when it came to wilderness camping. We were just winging it, and what once seemed like an extraordinary tale of adventure now lacked the immediacy, the real-time passion I wanted. I knew it was time to take a break from writing.

Nome has been my summer home for over three decades, and it’s a beautiful, windswept country with hardly any trees and lots of open tundra; it’s a hiker’s paradise. No trail is needed—you just venture where you feel drawn.

It was time to get some fresh air and hike that mountain I’d been eyeing for the last two years in the Kigluaik Mountains north of Nome, situated in western Alaska. It was a gorgeous mid-September day, golden light slanting sideways, no biting north wind nibbling at my cheeks, no fog like milk soup ready to push me into the wrong canyon, the mosquitoes had vanished into thin air, and no rainstorm was trying to drench me before I could utter the word hypothermia. As often, I was going alone, but I always have my dogs with me, loyal hiking companions, and exploring with them is pure joy.

After two hours of climbing, I reached the long-awaited summit. I sat down, unwrapped a simple Peanut butter and jelly sandwich, enjoyed a KitKat bar, washed it down with hot tea from my thermos, and fed the dogs big chunks of cheddar cheese. Life was good. I felt proud—still able to hike up these mountains at sixty-two. The landscape here is lush tundra with barren mountain tops. Yet vast patches of alder and willow thrive in ditches and creeks, and brush might cover some of their favorite shaded slopes. I’ve always managed to skirt such places and find a way around them. I prefer to see what wildlife moves close—especially with all the grizzly bears roaming the hills.

A mile-long easygoing ridgeline led north from the summit, and I followed.

Descending the ridge at the end, I searched for the quickest path through a dense thicket at the bottom.

Bear spray ready in my hand, I entered the brush.

I was faced with a wall of alder and willow bushes, seven feet tall, with branches both dead and alive, jutting out at every angle. I crawled under, climbed over, shoved through—my daypack snagging constantly. I realized with sudden panic that if I got mauled by a bear here, it would be a long time before someone could find me. I might just become another missing hiker story. And, of course, I had no cell service out here, and, stupidly, as I was old-fashioned, I didn’t own a satellite device for texting. This was the Great Alone, and it was the same rawness I had felt decades earlier, hiking through the Gates of the Arctic, when we saw our first grizzly bear loping toward us, not charging yet, but curious to check us out.

My fantasy of bear mauling running wild now, I thrashed through the brush like a woman gone mad, white-knuckling the bear spray, thumb ready to pop off the safety snap. At the same time, my iPhone blasted my playlist of bluegrass music on full volume from my jacket pocket as I fought my worst enemy—fear.

Finally, I stumbled out into open tundra, bursting free like a wild creature. I barreled downhill, tripping over low blueberry bushes, swearing as I fell. At the bottom, of course, a swamp spread out like a final test. I charged through the muck while my poor pups had to swim through the deeper pools. My eyes were fixated on that gravel road leading me to safety, still distant but getting closer.;

When I finally stepped onto the Kougarok Road all drenched, the dread peeled off me like a heavy cloak. I could breathe again. The dogs’ tongues were hanging out from all the excitement, and I could only guess that they had a grand ole adventure.

Back at the car, all safe and sound, I was laughing at myself: “Well, that was sure exciting. Maybe times are changing, and I should consider getting one of those fancy Garmin texting devices. But now I’d better get back to finishing my Brooks Range story while the memory of pure adrenaline is still alive.”

Anette’s essays and short nonfiction have appeared in The Homer News, The Nome Nugget, Prescott Woman’s Magazine, and The Yellow Sheet. Her writing often reflects the landscapes and lives that have shaped her, from coastal Alaska to the deserts of Arizona. Anette spends her summers gold mining in Norton Sound with her family.