My first boat trip across Lake Clark was rough. Together with Jerry and Rich, the rangers, and Logan, a historian- come- explosives expert, I headed out in the brand new stainless steel work-skiff across the windblown lake. The boat bumped heavily across the choppy white caps ‘til finally we made it to an old log cabin being restored about 45 minutes north of National Park Service headquarters at Port Alsworth. Apparently there had been rumours for years that there were old explosives on the site, so it was no surprise when a decaying plastic bag was uncovered in the collapsed food cache, exposing 66 unused sticks of dynamite from the 70’s.
The cabin was a classic log construction right out of Daniel Boone, situated with a million dollar view through a screen of spruce trees across the picturesque lake to the snow streaked mountains beyond. Recently it had been jacked up in order to remove and replace the rotted lower logs and the floor. Inside lime green flagging tape indicated original elements of the building that were to be retained – the fuel tin flues and a birch branch fashioned into a coat rack. Immediately around the cabin were piles of cut brush – alder and spruce, cleared to reduce the fire hazard, and nearby stood a makeshift tent constructed of saplings, canvas and a blue plastic tarp that housed the tools and a couple of pieces of original rustic furniture. Once refurbished, it was intended that the cabin be made available for park visitors to use during the summer months.
Logan explained the first task was to check the stability of the explosives by attaching a string to the bag and tugging at it from a distance, protected behind a tree (!) followed by a search for any old detonating caps which involved carefully raking around in the pile of rubbish that had fallen out of the old cache. While those jobs were underway I was happy to go with Jerry in the boat to warn the nearest neighbours of the impending explosion.
We motored around half a dozen bends along the lake shore to a couple of houses, partly hidden behind tall birch trees in the shadow of a towering mountain with a bald top. As we approached I could see a man bent over at the lake edge, pulling in a gillnet with a single sockeye salmon mortally tangled in the fine mesh. Jerry introduced me to Steve, a local non-fiction author and shortly after we were joined by his wife Anne, a poet, and their flash of a black sheep dog, Zippy (who clearly took his name very seriously). Zippy barked a warm welcome as he paused momentarily from careening crazily along the shore of the lake like Speedy Gonzales. Anne told us Zip doesn’t see many people and gets pretty excited at company. I laughed and tried to pat him but he was too busy to stop for long - running and leaping madly every which-way. Meanwhile Jerry explained about the explosives and Anne and John listened intently and asked lots of questions about how the old dynamite was to be dispatched. Anne then told us she was writing a novel as ‘nobody reads poetry these days’ and asked if we could call back before we left so that she could check some details of an explosion she had written into a part of her novel for accuracy with Logan. We agreed to call back if time allowed.
We turned the boat around and followed the shore in the opposite direction to warn Tish, an elderly and well known local artist, who lived by herself. Jerry and I jumped ashore and with nowhere to tie the boat up I held the anchor rope so it wouldn’t drift away while he went up to the cabin. Shortly after Jerry returned with Tish who was keen to say hello to an Australian woman, and she invited me for a quick inspection of her cabin. It too was a log construction, dark and warm inside with a picture window looking out onto the lake, framed by a purple patch of fireweed, a striking wildflower that grows ubiquitously throughout the state. As soon as my eyes adjusted to the dark I could see shot guns learning in every corner of the cabin and I commented to Tish that she had a lot of firearms at the ready. She said “I don’t ‘spose anyone would hear me scream if a bear came after me” and I nodded in agreement. She showed me her studio at one end of the cabin with intricate wood cuts and oil paintings decorating the walls and told me she hadn’t done much work since her husband died 3 years before. “You must miss him” I said quietly. She said she did very much and explained that nowadays spends her winters in Port Alsworth in a rented apartment, as it is hard living alone in the freezing weather. We said our goodbyes and jumped aboard the boat to go back and help with the preparations for the explosion.
Upon our return Logan and Rich had completed their search and the test on the old explosives which were deemed stable. The site for the blast was to be on the beach and Jerry and I pulled armfuls of brush from the piles around the cabin and carried them down to the beach as Rich constructed the pyre to detonate the explosives on. A heavy reinforced red steel box with a large padlock that Logan had hauled along on the trip contained a modern two-part explosive that was to do the deed on the old dynamite. The preparation was fascinating. Plastic tubes of white crystalline powder were decanted into double zip-lock bags. A tube of what looked like thick red cordial was then massaged through the crystals until they were slightly moist and pink. An explosive cord with a knotted end, known as a monkey’s fist, was poked into the side of the bag and taped up into a tight package, the cord hanging out like a fuse.
After the new explosives were prepared they were positioned carefully in the pyre with the bag containing the old explosive sticks and the empty plastic tubes on top. The fuses were tied together and joined to a detonating wire that Rich and Logan first tested to ensure the current was true. Once the electrical wire was connected, Rich shouted “FIRE IN THE HOLE !” meaning it was all live, connected and ready to blow. Logan had earlier briefed me regarding procedure for the blast. I was to stand well back, facing the explosion ensuring I was ready to step aside should any debris fly toward me. He assured me I would have time to step out of the trajectory of any flying object as it would appear to move in slow motion. Rich then shouted “FIRE!” and I involuntarily jumped as the percussive blast permeated my whole being with an extraordinary force of energy I had never experienced before.
The boom echoed across the lake as a light grey mushroom cloud of smoke erupted from the site of the pyre. Nothing flew out in my direction thank goodness and I waited until I’d been given the ‘all clear’ to inspect the remains. Everything was shredded to millimeter sized particles that had rained down on the lake and the beach. I was expecting a crater on the rocky shore but the only evidence of the blast was a small depression in the pebbles and mostly minutely mulched brush. It was a very neat job indeed! I wondered if any salmon or bears were concussed as Logan told me that abandoned or forgotten explosives were more common than one would expect, and the call on his services was quite frequent.
We packed up and on the way home dropped in on Anne who met us on the shore with the ever exuberant Zippy. After introductions she handed Logan a couple of printed pages from her draft novel for him to check for accuracy. Zippy provided a repeat performance of his antics as Logan read and made notes and we discussed the ancient Kijik name for the area; Qiz’jeh Vena, which translates as “lake where many people gather ". Anne explained her personal crusade to get the park renamed, particularly as the lake’s namesake John W Clark, had only briefly visited the area in 1891 and had somehow ended up immortalised despite such a short association with the place. Logan grimaced and asked Anne "Does the dog survive?" as he read the text and she laughed and said "Of course". We were all relieved!
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