It was nearing midnight and the sun was still fighting to stay above the horizon. We had been hiking for 6 hours, dinner was long overdue, and sleep felt impossible with the lights still on outside. I laid my head down and let the past few hours wash over me. Never in my life had I imagined my bed for the night would be pitched on one of Alaska’s most active volcanos. Makushin.
A few hours earlier I had been building a deck with my friend Jeff when the call came. The weather window was perfect. The plan was simple enough: fly to Driftwood Bay, hike to the summit, snowboard down, meet the plane before the weather turned. Easy, right?
our friend Clint, a pilot with the kind of calm confidence you want in remote Alaska, flew us out. Fortunately there were remains of an old WWII airstrip near the bay. We loaded the plane, lifted out of Unalaska Airport, and becan surveying the coastline and eventually Makushin from just a few hundred feet off the ground.
After landing we unloaded our gear, shouldered our packs, and watched the plane disappear into the sky. There's something that happens when a small plane leaves you on the edge of an island at the northern border of the Pacific Ocean and the southern border of the Bering Sea. The silence hits first. Then the reality. Two ways off this island, both dependent on weather and a pilot named Clint. That realization didn't settle into fear…it turned into pure adrenaline. We were actually doing it.
We had been optimistic about conditions since it hadn't rained in a few days. The marsh had other ideas. Turns out marshes don't dry out that quickly. Thankfully we found an old military road that pulled us out of the slog and started gaining elevation toward a prominent feature Jacob called the Sugarloaf. We pushed on until we found ground flat enough and dry enough to call camp. By the time the tent was up it was nearly midnight, and only then did the sun finally concede the horizon.
The next morning we set out early and quickly learned that snowshoes were non-negotiable, post-holing at elevation is a special kind of misery. With snowshoes on, the mountain opened up. The views were something else entirely. Watching clouds move through the valley below like a slow ocean, the volcano looming ahead, the world reduced to snow and sky and silence.
The next morning we set out early and quickly learned that snowshoes were non-negotiable — post-holing at elevation is a special kind of misery. With snowshoes on, the mountain opened up. The views were something else entirely. Watching clouds move through the valley below like a slow ocean, the volcano looming ahead, the world reduced to snow and sky and silence.
At the rim we ditched our skis and snowboard and made the short trek to the fumarole. The sulfur hit before we saw it — that unmistakable smell of the earth releasing pressure from somewhere deep. Steam vented from cracks in the snow. The ground hissed. Somewhere below the cornice, chunks of ice broke loose and dropped into water we couldn't see. We found a sheltered spot out of the wind, sat down in the sun, and took a nap on the summit of an active volcano. There are worse places to sleep.
On the way down we stopped at a handful of smaller vents, steam pouring out, the earth breathing. Literally breathtaking.
Then I strapped in and pointed the nose downhill. My body remembered more than I expected. Jacob's GPS clocked us over 30 mph on the descent. For a few minutes it was just speed and snow and the kind of joy that's hard to explain to someone who hasn't earned a run like that. Back at base camp we relaxed, took in the stillness, and radioed Clint with our timeline. Jacob did the math, four hours to reach the airstrip. We moved.
Even on a tight schedule the island demanded we stop and look. There was too much beauty to ignore.
Clint arrived right on time. We were only a few minutes behind. We walked in with tired backs and full hearts, loaded the gear, and lifted off. Looking back we could see the storm already moving in behind us. By the time we landed in Unalaska the rain had started.
High fives. Hugs. That was a volcano.
None of this happens without Jacob Whitaker aka the Aleutian Hiker whose knowledge of this island and whose vision made the whole thing possible. Thanks for letting me tag along on your mountain.