Once upon a time, in far northwestern British Columbia, Canada I spent a whole summer prospecting for minerals. Now it’s important to understand that I wasn’t doing this on my own. I was working for Phelps Dodge Corporation, at the time one of the largest mining companies in the world. It was the Summer of Love, 1967, and although I was a long-haired, card-carrying hippie freak, I wasn’t exactly hanging out in the city smoking dope and making free love. No, I was out in the middle of nowhere, far from the trappings of civilization. But don’t get me wrong, I was having the time of my life. Our base camp was in the middle of an amazing area, tens of thousands of square miles of untamed rivers, spectacular mountains and massive glaciers. It was loosely referred to as “The Stikine”, named for the mighty river which flows through it.
We were about a dozen souls in that camp, and one of the best things about it was the fact that we had a full-time helicopter. That’s what made it so great, the fact that we could do all that flying. A drive-in exploration camp without chopper support is much more boring. So anyway, here we were with this great little machine – I believe it was a Bell 47G – a three-seater which served us well. It got used every day that weather conditions allowed.
There is one event that still stands out in my mind to this day. In August, another fellow and I had been in a two-man fly camp for a week along the bank of Mess Creek. We were in daily contact with our base camp, many miles away, by a powerful two-way radio. It was agreed that the chopper would come in on the 18th and fly us back to base camp, the land of cold beer and thick steaks. Several days before our extraction date, though, we noticed the smell of smoke in the air. Our boss told us that evening on our regular radio call that a forest fire was burning a mere ten miles to the north of us, and had covered fifteen miles in the previous 24 hours! “What the hell, get us out of here!” was the thought of the day. He informed us that, sadly, it couldn’t be done, as the Forest Service had conscripted our helicopter and was using it and all other available aircraft to fight the fire.
All we could do was sit tight. While we did, something remarkable occurred. Moose, deer and even a bear passed by our tent along the bank of the creek (I call it a creek, but it was huge, more like a river). They were all fleeing the fire, while we twiddled our thumbs. Miraculously, the fire’s progress in our direction stopped and we breathed a collective sigh of relief. Days after our hoped-for departure, our chopper was finally released and it plucked us from our smoky hideaway.
Later that month, I celebrated my birthday in a special way. All summer long, I had been hoping for an excuse to visit an especially remote spot. I talked my boss into having the chopper drop me off quite a few miles up the Chutine River. It was to be an easy day, doing a bit of prospecting, but mostly just enjoying the solitude.
What a place! Although the river was only about 50 miles in total length, its source was deep in the huge icefields which lay across the British Columbia – Alaska boundary. Those icefields contain some of North America’s most spectacular and challenging peaks. Mt Ratz’s elevation is 10,137′, and it has a prominence of almost 8,000′. Chutine Peak, although lower, still has almost 5,800 feet of prominence. And check out this photo of Devil’s Paw. Although it is only 8,584′ in height, it too is classified as an ultra, with 5,686′ of prominence. Its north face drops an amazing 7,000′ in a distance of three miles. Kate’s Needle tops out at 10,016 feet. And not to be ignored is Devil’s Thumb – its northwest face, 6,700′ in height, is considered the greatest in North America, so difficult it has never been climbed.
So here I was, flying high over the Chutine River and completely mesmerized by the view as we headed west towards the Boundary Icefield. We didn’t go that far, but the pilot did finally set me down in an alpine meadow. I spent about 8 hours in blissful solitude, soaking up the views and not looking at a single piece of rock. By the time the chopper returned to pick me up, I realized I’d had an extraordinary day, one I still cherish forty-seven years on.
Come September, I was back in the teeming metropolis of Vancouver where I resumed my studies at the University of British Columbia. A men’s residence known as St. Mark’s College was my home on campus. That fall marked the start of my fourth year at UBC, and I regaled my room-mate George with tales of my summer in the Stikine. One day, we decided, for a lark, to put up a notice in the dining hall. It said something to this effect: “Chutine Climbing Club. If you’re interested in climbing mountains and having some great adventures, contact us – Room 310.” Imagine our surprise when several of our fellow Marksmen said they were interested. Nothing came of it, of course, as we had nothing to offer and the whole joke soon fell apart. George and I did have some pretty good climbing adventures together after that, though. A few short years later, George ended up spending three summers based in the village of Telegraph Creek, only 25 miles from the mouth of the Chutine River – he was doing geophysical surveys in the area. So in the end, he had his own Chutine experience.
Please visit us at our Facebook page, at
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Desert-Mountaineer/192730747542690