The Dogs of Deer Mountain - Part One
by Sandy McCollum

(Editor's Note: This is a true story, not a work of fiction.)

Finally, I was going to climb the Deer Mountain Trail. I'd always had to work when my family went up the mountain before. We packed our lunches and bundled up for the snow in a festive mood. Even T.W., the neighbor kid we'd invited along, was excited. There was Katie, Jessica, my husband, my son Ryan (home on leave from the Marines), and myself, along with our old dogs Bub and Rosie.

It was the end of February and though spring was just around the corner, the great mountain didn't know it yet, and most of the flora was still in a leafless winter slumber. The rain forest in Alaska is thick and dense. You literally cannot see far into the forest on a cloudy day. The thick evergreen canopy keeps it in constant shadow.

The air was crisp and cool as we worked our way up to the first look out. It's a place where the side of the mountain washed out in a storm and opened a great view of the Inside Passage. We could see the entire town, the harbors, and across the tops of all the nearby islands. Some of the islands had lakes, and we discussed tentative plans to rent a skiff and go explore them. The trail there narrowed to about 8 inches wide, eroding a little more with each rainfall. We crossed it very carefully, even Bub looking cautious as he crossed the tiny foot bridge.

The snow was patchy and every so often thick ice packs covered the trail. The dogs ran ahead, behind, seemingly tireless as they ran more miles than the trail held. The kids sang and talked, just as they'd been trained to do in the woods, even though the bears were hibernating. The snow deepened as we climbed. We had almost at the timber line when the real adventure started.

A dog ventured out of the woods and meandered toward us. It was a young, short-haired male of medium size and looked a little thin around the ribs. I looked back at our dogs. They wouldn't start a fight, but they'd finish it if another dog did. Luckily, this strange dog didn't seem interested in having a piece of them.

We kept a good pace and so did the strange dog. He followed us alongside the trail, periodically sniffing the air in our direction. I noticed he wore no collar and wondered if he was wild or if he'd been dumped or lost. It struck me odd to see a young dog alone so high up on the mountain.

We stopped to rest just below the timberline, anxious to get to the top but exhausted from the steep climb in the snow. The strange dog stayed distant, pacing and waiting. We saw deer and ermine tracks in the snow around us, and we heard a lone wolf howl in the distance. Deciding we were rested enough, we continued single file up the trail, now marked only with orange tags on the trees.

"Stop it. Stop it!" T.W. angrily screamed behind me. I turned to see what the problem was. The strange dog had grabbed T.W.'s cloth lunch box and was playing a growling tug of war to get it away from him. I felt compassion for the young starving dog. I ran to help but just as I reached him, the dog broke the boy’s hold on the lunch bag and ran off into the woods with it. I told T.W. the dog must be very hungry to do that, and there was no crime in being hungry, especially in winter. We'd brought extra food and he could share our lunches with us.

T.W. didn’t agree with my solution, saying his mother would kill him if he returned without her work lunch box. We knew he was exaggerating, but we didn’t want him to get in trouble either, so we gave chase. We ran all over that mountain side and up above the timberline. It was difficult to go fast as we sank to the top of our legs in the deep snow every other step. We made little progress as the hungry young dog had the advantage, running easily on top of the snow pack. The kids tired out and gave up while my husband, son and I kept up the chase.

The dog finally stopped. He tore open the spoils of his theivery, enabling Ryan to get close enough to grab the lunchbox. Ryan barely kept his hold on it as the dog growled and shook his head to get it away from my son. Finally the lunch box ripped wide open, letting the contents fall out onto the snow. The dog instantly forgot about the lunch box and hungrily snapped up the food on the snow, wrappers and all. Ryan put what was left of the lunch box in his pack.

We found a place above the timberline to sit and eat lunch, marvelling at the breath-taking view. There were huge snowballs, pale blue, perfectly round, and bigger than us that had rolled down from the top of the mountain. We noticed a large wood cross sticking out of the snow, and I wondered how big the cross really was since we figured there was about 10 feet of snow under us. The cross had the name Fred written on it and we joked it was the grave of the young stray dog and it was his spirit that took the lunchbox. We started calling the stray Fred and it was funny because he seemed to respond to it, but he wouldn't come closer.

"Mom, look!" Katie pointed. One thing our vantage afforded us was a fantastic view of the brilliant pinks and purples of evening settling in across the sky. "Beautiful sunset starting!"

Just saying the word sunset out loud quieted everyone and we looked at our watches. It would be dark in an hour and we were five miles up a treacherous trail that was barely safe in daylight. The stray had taken so much of our time we'd forgotten about the afternoon Alaska nightfall. We had to turn back immediately.

We tried to hurry the exhausted kids into finishing their lunch, and I left a sandwich on the snow for the dog who still watched us from a distance. I was sure he'd sniff out our picnic spot as soon as we left it.

We didn't think of the stray again as we practically ran down the trail in single file. I worried about someone breaking a leg or tripping and injuring themselves, but there was no time to think about that. Once we were back under cover of the forest it darkened, even though daylight still pierced the canopy. Reaching patchy snow made us feel a bit of relief. The trail from there was easier to navigate. It quickly darkened and soon we had to touch the person in front of us to keep together, with my husband leading us as safely and quickly as he could. When we reached the first look out we breathed a sigh of relief. The missing trees provided us some light until we crossed the narrow foot bridge and re-entered the forest on the other side. My dogs even seemed scared, whining and insisting on walking beside me on the narrow trail.

Night doesn't just bring darkness in Alaska. It also brings colder temperatures -- even in summer -- and it didn't take long before it started to freeze again. The wet trail was now a slick rock path as all the dampness froze. We didn't have a flashlight but we followed the flame from Michael's lighter as he held it high.

When we reached a big cedar tree across the path we realized we were not on the trail anymore. This was not good; people have been lost in the dark up there before, and had either succumbed to hypothermia or were never found. Using his lighter, Michael tried to relocate the trail while we waited, but he couldn't find the markers. My son felt his way around and called out to Michael to bring the lighter to his voice. By this time we couldn't see each other, and the kids and I held hands to stay together.

Michael reached Ryan with the lighter and they found we were at the one mile marker. Still on the trail, but this tree was not across the path when we'd gone up. After we'd passed by it apparently fell and part of the trunk now lay across a creek, changing its path. The creek ran over the trail instead of alongside it. We helped the kids over the big tree and across the stream, soaking our feet, but we didn't stop to worry about it. We heard the wind rocking the tall old trees and they creaked long, slow moans above us where we could not see them. It was eerie, and eight-year-old Jessica became frightened and started crying. We convinced her that hurrying down the trail was the only way to safety and continued on.

It was so dark we couldn't see the ice packs. I brought up the rear, helping the kids cross each one as we came to it. I constantly worried that my dogs would fall or slip off the edge or that my kids might get hurt or lost. I thought more trees might have fallen above us because the trail became a cold wash of streams and creeks we had to cross that weren't there before. We followed Michael's lighter until the fluid ran out.

I heard the rushing of the biggest creek as we approached. On the other side would be the largest ice pack we had to cross. The footbridge over the creek was slick but we crossed it easily and gathered on the other side to plan our strategy to cross an ice pack we knew was there but couldn't see. It was at least seven feet wide and ten feet across, spilling over the cliff's edge. Bub went first.

He stepped on the ice and immediately slipped. We could hear his tags jingling and his claws frantically scraping the ice as he let out a little yelp. Then he was gone in the darkness. We heard him crash through brush as he fell, and his high-pitched yips and barks of pain as he tumbled down the side of the mountain.

I screamed his name several times, crying, my mind supplying the images of what I'd just heard in the dark woods. I'd had Bub for 12 years and didn't want to lose him or let him die alone in the cold darkness. I'd seen this cliff in the daylight on the way up, and my mind kept picturing him lying injured in the snow below where we couldn't help him.

The kids started asking what happened because they couldn't see. They began crying and I couldn't stop. This was the death of a beloved family member. It happened so fast. I felt around for Rosie to make sure she was still with us, and she was. I tried to listen for sounds of life in the darkness below, but heard only my children crying and the wind rushing through the tree tops above us. The men were silent, and I was beside myself with grief. I couldn't leave.

In our next issue, the conclusion of "The Dogs of Deer Mountain."