Scrambling, paddling to the finish in Wrangell-St. Elias National Park

McCARTHY — It's a bright Saturday morning in Wrangell-St. Elias National Park as I join 38 others in front of Kennicott Wilderness Guides here. Backpacks litter the ground, full of small inflatable rafts. We are here to race the Up and Over, the longer of the two 2016 McCarthy Creek Packraft Races. It features a 3,200-foot scramble up over National Pass via an unmarked route full of cow parsnip and alders, across tundra and scree, and then down 2,700 feet to float 10 miles of Class III whitewater back to McCarthy.

Jared Steyaert, co-owner of Kennicott Wilderness Guides, greets us and delivers the safety briefing. Mostly, he reminds us how far away help is. Be prepared for self-rescue, he encourages. Stay in groups. The water is higher than the last few years, and now is the time to be honest with yourself about whether you really want to float Class III water. The nearest hospital is hours of travel away.

A hand-drawn map of the rapids is distributed, and one participant asks the obvious question: "Jared, why isn't there a map of the hiking portion?" He grins, "Well, we want to maintain the wilderness character of the race." I don't know it yet, but this statement will be playing on loop in my mind just hours later.

10:34 a.m., Kennicott

Jared gives the signal and a pack of racers (including friends Seth and Elan) sprint down the Kennicott road. I jog, trying to pace myself. We begin ascending a series of switchbacks and I try to fall into some sort of rhythmic breathing, listening as the other racers gasp and climb. We pass the old Kennicott Mine, still and quiet. Up and up we go, calves screaming. I'm oblivious to the magnificent view of Root and Kennicott Glaciers sprawling before us, my eyes fixed on the gravel and dust plumes coming off the trail in front of me.

Noon

The lead woman is roughly 20 yards ahead when we emerge above tree line. Pleased that I've kept up, my confidence grows as I consider the route I've planned: traverse down before the pass to avoid getting cliffed out, go over on the left, and then follow the gulley down to the rafting put-in.

But my confidence is cut short as I spot frontrunners descending. Where are they going? Do I join them and lose the elevation I've gained? Or do I stay up?  As I hesitantly begin to descend, my left leg catches a root and I tumble sideways down the mountain, somersaulting with my backpack. My fall is short and I attend to my pride first, looking around to ensure no one saw. I'm unhurt and hike on.

The pass is soon directly above and I decide to head straight up the gully. I'm quickly on all fours, scrambling up loose gravel. My Camelbak hydration backpackstraw runs dry and I briefly entertain the thought of putting on my helmet, but forge on, scurrying up and over the pass. A small cheering section of guides greet me, informing me that one of my friends was the first over the pass. I smile and wave.

A spring gurgles cheerily beneath my feet and I quickly shove aside thoughts of giardia, fall to my knees and drink straight from my cupped hands. Sweet nectar of the Gods, the water is ice cold. Standing up, I pause to look out at the mountainous expanse before me. The view is humbling and for the first time all day, I stop. I am alone, completely alone, in the wilderness. Endorphins rushing through me, I savor the moment.

Time unknown

Roughly an hour later, the euphoria is gone. I've come to the demoralizing realization that the gulley has led me astray — away from the river and deep into thick woods. The forest is a cruel jungle gym, each movement forcing me to claw alders out of my eyes, clamber over dead spruce trees, all the while trying to avoid cow parsnip stalks. It feels like a long time since I saw anyone and I contemplate exactly how unfortunate it would be to sprain an ankle at this moment. My pace slows.

Periodically I reach for my paddles, confirming that the forest hasn't stolen my one means of dignified escape. I inventory my supplies, thinking fondly of my bear mace, left lonely on the porch that morning. The thought of sleeping under my packraft in my dry suit and long underwear motivates me to reevaluate my course. I scramble up a small hill and peak out at the river, realizing that the target moraine is to my right. Ego bruised, I retreat south, back the way I came.

2 p.m.

Relief floods over me as I spot an orange flag marking the put-in site on the river. A few boats depart as I arrive and two others are almost ready to leave. One boater, Steve, kindly helps me inflate my raft.

A second boater, Susan, is gazing at the river apprehensively. I know this expression: I wore it last year. I recall emerging from the forest only to feel a rush of nerves rise up inside. What terrors lay beyond the bend?

"Jules," I murmured nervously to my raft partner back then, "not to alarm you, but there's a lot of adrenaline going through me right now. I guess I'm just worried about the lack of control." He laughed and shook his head, "Oh yeah, don't we all, don't we all…"

This year I'm relieved to no longer be taking stock of my survival skills in the trees. The river looks like salvation. I smile at Susan and offer to take the lead.

Guides are stationed at the trickier parts of the river, throw bags ready for unwitting swimmers.  I smell the first rapids before we approach them: charcoal and burgers are in the air. Having consumed all of one goo packet during the race, I gratefully paddle to shore for a snack.

After eating, we continue down the river. The water is at a perfect height and I gain confidence finding my own line. Our paddle continues uneventfully until we reach a calm stretch of water. I lazily turn my boat to eddy out, but misjudge the current and instead slide against a rock downstream. I'm laughing until I realize my boat is alarmingly vertical and then plunge headfirst into the water. For only the second time in my packrafting career, I swim.

5:30 (Seven hours, two minutes later)

We pull into McCarthy around dinnertime, bar patrons of the Golden Salon cheering. I cross the finish line in the middle of the pack, but my appearance suggests I ran a different race. My hair is sticking out at odd angles and my legs look like I just emerged from the raptor exhibit in Jurassic Park. Seth and Elan are calmly sitting in grass, sipping beers in dry clothes. They survey the carnage on my lower body and Elan comments, "Jesus, where'd you go?"

I lean back, watching dogs roll in the street as the sun casts early evening light on Fireweed Mountain. I laugh, "Oh my, it's a long story…"

Molly Carver grew up in Kodiak and currently lives in Anchorage. In her spare time, she enjoys photography, backpacking, paddling, and not utilizing a map and compass. This is her second year racing the Up and Over.