Denali by Gravel Bike: East Fork and Return

24 August, 2022 (continued)

Under the cloud-cobbled sky, a blazing corridor of fireweed lined the road in its winding descent towards the East Fork River and the marshy lowlands beyond. A long view of the Polychrome Mountain opened before me as I slowly crested Sable Pass, the high point of my ride. Reenergized by beauty and the sight of that hard-won downhill, I flew. Arms outstretched, I rode as swiftly as my wheels could carry me down the graveled arcs of road into the valley.

At the foot of the descent, smiling and pleasantly chilled, I encountered a newly-widened turnaround point that marked the temporary terminus of functional road. A ranger’s station, picnic area, and interpretive displays were scattered through the corridor between a mountain incline and the short drop to the river flats. Visitors stretched their legs at the bus tours’ halfway point, an eclectic mix of athletic hikers departing on multi-day backcountry treks, little flocks of children scampering onto the river bar trailed by parents and picnic packs, and photographers toting an impressive array of equipment.

Beyond the bus turnaround, the path crossed a bridge over the East Fork River before starting the upward traverse towards Polychrome Pass. Shortly beyond the bus stop, 28 miles from my starting point at the Savage River, I rounded a rocky toe of mountain and encountered the road closure. A few service vehicles were parked beyond, park staff or contractors surveying the damaged section of road. The Pretty Rocks Landslide had cut off road access for the remaining 50 miles to the old mining camp of Kantishna and, with it, some of my favorite parts of the park.

I didn’t linger at the stopping point, but my mind continued to wander west: I imagined climbing the Polychrome traverse, riding on to a unit where I’d have secured a backcountry permit, stowing my bike by the road, and hiking out to find a hidden campsite in the backcountry. I imagined listening to the wild things calling as I rested through the night, then continuing on to Wonder Lake and soaring views of Denali’s 20,000 ft peak beyond. While not in the cards for this trip, I was already planning for a longer adventure when the road reopened.

Shortly after passing the ranger’s station on my return to Sable Pass, I noticed movement in the willow brush obscuring a roadside ravine. The shaggy head of a brown bear emerged from the thicket about 100 yards ahead and began walking casually down the road in my direction. Its body language showed that it was aware of my presence, but it did not appear overly interested or threatened –it was simply using the road as an easier path across rough terrain. I gave the bear a loud hello, continuing to keep up a one-sided conservation while I dismounted and walked a few yards diagonally down and across the road towards a pull-out where I could stop and allow the bear a generous passing lane.

After continuing down the hill a short way, the bear slowed to nibble its way through a berry patch. I waited on the shoulder, binoculars in hand, admiring the massive animal as it enjoyed an abundance of frost-sweetened blueberries along the roadside. The graceful power of a brown bear in the wild gives a thrill that never dulls.

Thanks to Denali’s hard-working rangers and robust education programs, adverse bear encounters in the park are rare. The majority of North American bear attacks are either defensive or related to obtaining and guarding food resources (i.e. not predatory). Human behavioral management is a crucial factor in preventing conflicts, which may become fatal for either the human or the bear if the situation escalates. Backcountry travelers in Denali are required to take an orientation that teaches best practices for wildlife safety, and bear-resistant food containers are both provided and required for backpackers.

Unfortunately for the “blueberry bear,” a group of bus tourists on their rest stop either lacked the knowledge or sufficient motivation to behave appropriately around bears. As they came up behind me, I gestured them over and pointed out the bear along the roadside uphill. To my dismay, they declined my recommendation to wait and, cameras out, made a profoundly foolish beeline for the bear.

The change in the brown bear’s body language when they entered its personal space was profound. He returned to the center of the road, tense and alert, staring down the approaching humans. The humans, oblivious and ignoring me as I called them back, continued towards him. It was in that moment when a well-timed park bus came into view. The driver saw what was happening and accelerated to place the vehicle diagonally across the road between the tourists and the bear. The bear, fleeing the bus, left its blueberry patch behind. The humans, after a stern lecture from the bus driver, retreated back towards the ranger station.

Although the bear would likely have run from the approaching group, my pulse was still racing with irritation and anxiety as I resumed my journey. If nothing else, I wished the tourists could have empathized with the bear’s annoyance at being interrupted from a meal of berries –even if they didn’t understand the survival importance of every pre-winter calorie. It took several minutes of leg-scorching pedaling to shift my heart from the pounding of adrenaline back to the calm, quick rhythm of exertion.

As I crested the summit of the pass, my eyes were drawn to movement on a hillside to my north, where I spotted the golden form of another bear. Well above me and undisturbed by my presence, she snuffled a weaving path through the ground-hugging alpine flora, searching for berries or ground squirrels. As I watched her, a hiker approached from the west and stopped to join in my quiet admiration. Ed, as he introduced himself, was a photographer and experienced outdoorsman. While Ed captured photos of the bear above, we shared hushed introductions and compared notes on the day’s wildlife sightings. There is a magic in meeting kindred spirits on the trail, a recognition of shared wonder. After the discordant tourist encounter, our peaceful appreciation of the golden bear set my mind at ease. When the bear’s meanderings turned in our direction, Ed turned back towards the East Fork valley and I continued northeast towards the park entrance at a leisurely pace.

The remaining journey was a mellow, rolling ride through the rise and fall of hillsides and river valleys. I stopped frequently for bears of the gummy variety, relishing the sweetness that fed my increasingly sluggish pedaling. The long, late summer day meant no concern for sunset or fear of a late arrival, and I stopped to admire the shifting of light across the land, snow-white herds of Dall sheep on the mountainside, the gliding movement of a trio of caribou, and third food-focused bear.

I watched the slanting darkness of a small rainstorm as it passed through a valley, then rode on towards a rainbow arcing across the the road like a gateway to paradise. I slowed still further as I entered a tract of thick mud left in the storm’s wake, dismounting to use my better-conditioned hiking muscles for the sticky slog as I ascended the next hill.

I rolled down the final slope into the Savage River Valley under the shadows of a long, subarctic evening. After 56 miles, thousands of feet of climbing, and passages through an assortment of rain, wind, sun, and snow flurries, I was in that state of happy dishevelment that marks the end of a very good day. I pulled up beside my car, dismounted on wobbly legs, and slowly unpacked and racked my faithful bicycle. My hair was wild, my clothing was mud-caked, and I was laughing with giddy exhaustion. I flopped into the driver’s seat with the surreal feeling that comes whenever I transition from a long outdoors back to the comfortable, but somehow muted, sensations of life indoors.

As I drove home, I reflected on the unfamiliar experience of seeing my beloved park from the saddle of a bicycle. While initially regarding confinement to the road as a cumbersome restriction, I had been pleasantly surprised to discover that traveling by bike offered a similar sense of joyous connection to the world as found when afoot on the trail. I had reveled in the sight of wild creatures and soaring landscapes; the smell of dripping plants, musky animals, and chilled earth; and the changeable feel of the air as the sky opened and closed with wandering clouds. A good day’s visit to the edge of the wild.