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Judy Ferguson's first book, Parallel Destinies sells for $19.95 and can be purchased through Judy Ferguson at 907-895-4101 or outpost@wildak.net.  It is also for sale at Diehls', Granite View, Kelly's Country Inn, Tanana Trading Post and other stores.  It can be purchased on-line from Outdoors Alaska.

Interested in fishing while you are in Alaska?  Take a look at the selection of fishing books on our partner site OutdoorsDirectory.com  Click on the image for more information.

Breaking trail leads to rite of passage


Above Photo: Judy Ferguson stands in front of the completed cabin at Schist Creek. (Ferguson family photos) 

By JUDY FERGUSON 

In 1969, massive fires burned our trapline. We had to relocate and start over, which was an enormous amount of work. In 1971, we began by cutting trail, finding creeks and building cabins. This was before fancy tents, modern rain gear and the widespread use of Pampers. 

I made Clint, my toddler, a thin rain suit and he sat in the saddle with me as we helped Reb, my husband, prepare the trail. Breathing in chainsaw exhaust, bug bitten and dirty, we threw branches out of the way and claimed about two miles of trail a day. 

We spent many days up on a ridge, with the rain sliding off the alder leaves onto our heads, as we plowed through its endless ups and downs. My thin rain outfit only slowed the water down before it found my neck, my arms and my back. Clint napped under my poncho, but after he woke up, I was stiff from the cold and I dismounted to walk and warm up. There were a few dry hours when I tried to dry diapers, baby pajamas and damp sleeping bags. In the fine mist, sweat formed on Reb's forehead. Rain poured off the brim of his hat. He punched his hat up from the inside, drying it out some. 

As we overlooked the valley, we earnestly searched for a descent to a cabin site below. As July 21st approached, I began to realize that my 26th birthday was about to pass, no different from all other days. Tears slid down my face on my "big day" as the dead leaves of the previous fall scuffed across the toes of my Red Wing boots. 

We'd been up on the ridge too long; we needed higher ground, cabin logs, grass for the horses and water for everyone. We decided to explore the next valley for a possible cabin site. There was no gradual descent so down we crashed through the trees. We squeezed between spruce trees, ripping our home-made saddle bags. As we plunged through swamp, the horses leap-frogged from island to island, looking for more solid footing, as their thighs sank in the spongy earth. The trees were all scrub spruce and the ground was porous with seepage. 


Reb was lost as we bounced from one thin, witch-hair tree to the next, scraping our legs and ducking our heads under branches. And then, there it was: an island, washed in sunshine, a low ridge in this valley of swamp and porcupines. It had trees. A fresh creek ran at the bottom, with meadows of wild grasses peppering the lower ground, surrounding the island's base. It was home. The little creek ran flecks of yellow mica schist, so we named it Schist Creek. 

Reb walked off the dimensions of the cabin, and we laid the first rounds. His horse, Klondike, dragged the logs to site, where I peeled them. Little Clint waddled and sucked on his bottle, as he crossed the dirt floor. He struggled over the base logs and landed in the fur of our pack dog, Olie Polie. His sudden crying erupted through me and I saw blood flowing down his chin. He'd stumbled and sunk his tooth deeply into his tongue. His tongue, like the blazing on our trees, is still marked by that trip. 

Left: Clint Ferguson sits astride his father's horse, Klondike, while his parents cut the trail to Schist Creek. 

When we'd first come crashing off the mountain down the valley, I'd memorized the ridges' lines, knowing I would be returning alone to retrieve freight, while Reb worked on the Schist Creek cabin. I rode Klondike back through the swamp, leading Amigo, to bring back a load of boards. I eyed each sapling's blaze carefully, not wanting to move from one until I saw the next. If I went up the wrong ridge, I could wind up lost on the mountain. Suddenly, I was in a swamp with no more markers in sight. I asked the Lord to show me the way. It began to rain, so I had to get off my horse to untie my rain gear. Then I saw an elastic band from off of my braids left from our first trip into the valley, and laying in the moss. I knew, then, I was in the right place, and would soon pick up the blazes again. 

That birthday was a sort of "rite of passage" for me. Sometimes I'm surprised I always "stick my neck out" and want to go with Reb again, but I know each adventure with him is new and I don't want to miss any good times together. Maybe next time, though, he'll remember to bring along that birthday candy bar! 

Judy Ferguson is a free-lance writer living in Delta.

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