Caine's Head Trail, Seward, Alaska

At the end of my first backpacking experience on Johnson Pass the previous year, I was fairly certain I would never venture into the woods again. However, my first year of college and the mounting stress of the real world made me long for some peace and quiet away from the bustling city of Anchorage. My confidence in my own outdoor abilities did take a big boost on the JP 30 mile hike the year before, and soon I was talking to my mom about signing up for Women Afoot adventure number two.

This year a new leader chose Caine's Head Trail, a beach hike out of Seward, Alaska. The main trail is about four miles long, with lots of longer day hikes from a well set-up camp site area. The trail is much flatter, though, should you decide to try this trail, walking long distances on sand for the first time is not as easy as it sounds.

Once again, the group was comprised of about ten women, mostly twice my age and then some, though in far better condition. This year I started out with much more enthusiasm, partly due to sunny weather, which is rare for the Kenai Fjords. I also remembered and longed for the way I felt after a week of backpacker meals and day after day of exercise. I had never before felt so in sync with my body and what I put in it as when I left the JP trail.

This year we had the added challenge of watching tide changes and scheduling our hike around the rise and fall of the water. Alaska sees some of the biggest tide changes in the world, so it's easy to find long stretches of beach hidden hours later under several feet of ocean water. One does not wish to be trapped against the cliff rocks with nowhere to stand when this happens.

Another added challenge to this hike was bouldering around piles of rock, some of which were pretty high and sometimes wet and slippery. Suddenly, I found myself becoming very aware of my 56 year old mother, who suddenly seemed fragile to me. Granted, she didn't feel this way in the least, but we soon discovered that she was one of the oldest hikers in the group, and she was frequently treated as such. She grew increasingly peeved with other hikers who tried to lend her a hand or suggested she go a different route through rocks when she felt completely capable of following the rest of us. My growing concern for aging parents met head on with how proud I was of her for proving what she was made of.

When we arrived at the camp site, it was, of course, raining again, which is typical of Alaska's southern rainforest areas. We followed the lead of the main guide, who suggested we pitch our tents under the covered shelter. Mom wasn't too thrilled with this idea, since it was used as a food shelter and we all knew it was a bad idea to camp near our food. But no one else seemed too worried about it, so we went about pitching our tent, gathering water, and laying out food to start dinner.

In the days that followed, we enjoyed several day hikes, some of which 8-10 miles long. These went by in a breeze without the weight of our packs. In the area are several rundown military barracks from World War II, fascinating relics now being swallowed in moss and new growth.

The end of one trail comes to a pebble beach, which we happened to reach as the sun was breaking through the clouds. I can safely say this is the only time, in nearly twenty years of living in Alaska, that I sunbathed on the beach, however briefly. We passed our lunch break watching ships go out to sea. The water was several shades of blue and turquoise. The mountains on the other side of the water were mossy green, and covered with families of Puffins.

We never saw the bears on the trail that we'd heard so much about. But we did see lots of wild berries on the walk back to camp. We picked wild raspberries along the trail, some as big or bigger than the pads of my thumbs! They were sweet and delicious. A wonderful trail snack.

By Friday we were all ready to head home, refreshed by the walks, the views, and the good company. Only one woman proved to be disruptive, as her outdoor background was more geared toward sport hunting, in which most of us had no interest. Her husband "forced" her to break the cardinal rule and pack a firearm, which is strictly against the Women Afoot philosophy, and generally unnecessary for a group as large as ours. This made some of us very uncomfortable, and relieved when her pack was thrown in her own truck at the end of the week.

The hike out was the highlight of the trip for me, despite the rain and tight race against the tide. I was at the head of the line, now becoming the fastest hiker in the group, and was the first to turn most corners of rock cliffs and changes in the shore line. At one corner, I looked up in time to spot a mature male bald eagle perched on a piece of drift wood ahead of us. Startling him, he quickly took off, no more than twenty feet away from me. His wing span was incredible! He was wider than I was tall. He was brilliant as he glided out over the water and away into the sky. As a child I had only seen eagles from far away, little dots perched on tree tops. For the first time ever I appreciated them in their full grandeur.

This year, on the drive home, I knew I was hooked and would be back the next year. In the meantime, there were many day hikes to explore.

Johnson Pass, Kenai Penninsula, Alaska

When my parents moved our family from Iowa to rural Alaska in 1990, it is amazing how much of the midwest we managed to bring with us. Over time we began to integrate characteristics of Alaskan life into our own, such as switching out beef stew meat for moose. We were enthralled with the mushing culture that permeated our little town, and loved hearing bear stories and other adventures from seasoned trail goers. But we ourselves enjoyed the woods mostly from the view of the road to town or the windows of our cozy cabin. Other than scenic Sunday drives in the mountains, we didn't wander too far off the trail for fear of the "what ifs" that make Alaska so legendary. My brothers, avid Boy Scouts, were the exception to the rule. By junior high, they were building snow caves and backpacking in the Hatcher's Pass wilderness area near our town. I, however, was never allowed to tag along. So when I was 18 and my mom suggested we sign up together for a week-long, all women, leave-no-trace-behind backpacking camp, I agreed out of curiosity.

Mom and I went over and over the packing list before we left home, double and triple checking our packs for swiss army knives, water bottles, moleskin (whatever that was), first aid supplies, hiker dish soap, and so on. Both of us were using my brothers' backpacks, neither of which fit us very comfortably. Despite the "training" we'd done that spring to prepare, I was completely taken back the first time I put on my full pack. Having never done anything this difficult, my whole body ached, wondering how I was ever going to haul it thirty miles.

The trail, chosen by our guide, was Johnson Pass, about two hours south of Anchorage on the Seward Highway. The trail itself was about 30 miles long, with a few thousand feet of elevation change. I was the youngest girl on the trip. The second youngest was nearly twice my age. I looked around at all these mountain women with awe. They were mostly all seasoned hikers, with the exception being me and my mom. They awaited the trail with great anticipation and enthusiasm. At 7am, when we arrived at the trailhead, all I wanted to do was go back to sleep.

By one or two miles in, my first pair of new hiking boots were already giving me grief. It was raining, as it always does in southern Alaska in the summer. So, getting into our packs was tricky without getting everything wet. I learned so much in that first day on the trail. I didn't know that a forming blister was a "hot spot," and that moleskin could be put on to cover, or even prevent a forming blister. I learned the art of layering the hard way; first, my rain gear plus my hiking gear was too much. Then the rain gear on its own was too little. I learned how to operate a can of bear spray, use a trowel, hike with a borrowed pole, and to sit without taking off my pack. However, despite all of these wonderful new tricks to think on, I was tired and in a terrible mood by lunch. When we did finally stop for food, in the pouring rain with no canopy for protection, we pulled out our lunch marked "day 1." It was something to the effect of trail mix (or gorp), beef jerky, string cheese, and peanut butter crackers. This was a far cry from my teenage diet of cheeseburgers and Dr. Pepper, which made me all the grumpier. So I glared at my mother, and silently forced my body to keep moving.

Finally, over ten miles in and well over 1500 feet of elevation gain later, we arrived at our camp site. It was stretched out along a beautiful lake, with loons and big fish in the water. We were to set up tents here for two nights, with an optional day hike the next day (which I, of course, declined). Mom and I set up our tent to share, a fun venture in itself for a mom and her angsty teenage daughter. I awaited dinner with unbridled enthusiasm, and was greatly disappointed to find something called "hummus" on the menu. I looked longingly over the mashed potatoes and cheese as they cooked, but was silently furious that someone ruined them with "sticks," or a seasoning of rosemary. That night I went to sleep in the tent by 8pm, trying to drown out the misery of constant cold, hunger, and sore muscles.

I look back on all of this now, nearly ten years later, with amusement because I am such a different person for having had this experience. Over time I've come to love pushing my body to new challenges, and cooking tasty delights like quinoa and yams on the trail. Having collected gear over the years to match my body, like a women's REI excursion pack and self-venting rain gear, I've come to live for these ventures into the woods. But my love affair with the outdoors would take some time to develop, and was still in a sad state by the next morning of our hike.

By the end of day two I was bored playing cards and ready to move on. By day four my body was gaining a rhythm with the trail, and even with my pack, which was also growing lighter. I felt strangely proud of my aches and bruises. We ended the trail on day five with a high awareness of bears, making lots of noise as we came to a creek crossing with salmon guts strewn all over the banks. On the drive home we noted the thirty minute gap on the highway between the start and end of the trail, overwhelming me with pride for what we'd accomplished. I looked into the mountain valley from the road amazed that we had wandered "that far" from civilization and survived.

On the way back to Anchorage we stopped at a lodge where I stuffed myself with a bacon burger, ice cream, and exorbitant amounts of Dr. Pepper. When we arrived home and I walked through the front door, my older brothers looked up curiously from the couch, happy to see we'd survived and interested to hear how we'd faired. I was proud that I could stand on my own two feet next to them and share their experiences in the woods. Of course, when we got off the trail I said to myself it was fun but that I'd probably never put myself through something like that again.

Little did I know..... The trail has a hard time letting you go.