Sometimes I think the world must be so different from what it was 40 years ago, the influence of technology and the internet must have irreversibly changed human nature at it’s core. Surely, my scrolling of social media must’ve shifted my perspective from previous generations, the internet constantly at my fingertips.
During my coop term in June 2024 in Whitehorse, Yukon, my Mom flew up to visit. I had an excursion planned to the Laughton Glacier Cabin, near Skagway, Alaska, just a few hour’s drive from Whitehorse. I discovered the joy of USFS cabins earlier in the year at my family’s ‘Ukrainian Christmas’ in Montana, and I have been looking forward to exploring more of them. Laughton Glacier Cabin is near Skagway and accessed by taking the White Pass Train 14 miles up [freedom units for America] (or ~22.5 kms), then hike in 1.5 miles (~2.4 km) to reach this cute backcountry cabin.
Skagway-the town we started the train ride in-is a cruise ship town. The sleepy town I had previously visited on a solo camping trip in April was completely different in the summer when massive cruise ships unleashed thousands of passengers upon the town. The train from town operates now as a tourist venture and takes cruise-goers through the iconic White Pass, an ode to the gold rush of the past. On the train with a big ol backpack with snowshoes and kerosene strapped to the back, Mom and I looked out of place beside the American tourists filling the other cars.
To the trail by rail!
Our train car was the hiker’s car, empty, save us and a man, probably 70, split board in hand, ready to skin up to check the avalanche conditions for the areas surrounding the train tracks. Turns out we met the biggest backcountry skier in Skagway who I had heard of on a trip a few weeks prior (he is also rumoured to believe kick turns are unnecessary). He shared the trip was one of the last needed for the season as the snow was quickly releasing its grip on the land. He was chatty and loved his job that he’s held for the past many, many years. I hope to be as enthusiastic about my future job as he is. Mom and I were the second visitors to the cabin of the year, and were told we were in for a treat.
The train stopped at the trailhead, and as we were the first car after disembarking, we got to watch the rest of the train pass us and stare on at two women strapped up with big bags, alone on the side of the tracks. It was an odd feeling to have 300 eyes on you all at once—like a celebrity with hundreds waving to you and taking pictures.
Fiddlehead grub
We walk up the path, encountering no one else, snowshoes unneeded. We found some fiddleheads along the way (Mom has epic plant knowledge), which we harvested to accompany our dinner of rice and sausage slated for the night. We get to the cabin, and it’s paradise. It’s a small wood cabin equipped with 4 bunk beds, a kerosene stove, some maps, the flora and fauna of the area, and a logbook.
Top left: Mom, the original adventure buddy. Top right: View down the moraine. Center: Clip from the logbook Bottom: The first view of the cabin.
Outside, an outhouse, a fire ring, an axe, and a rushing river. We dropped our things and headed to the base of Laughton Glacier, the objective being to go up the right moraine as far as we could manage. It was beautiful, and we kept marvelling over the fact we were the only people there at this insane five fingered glacier.
We made it back down to the cabin, ate our fiddleheads, then messed with the kerosene heater, almost gave up hope on the heater, but miraculously got it started. I then settled in and cracked open the logbook. I was excited to find it went back to 1981, marked with the stories of visitors over the past four decades.
The first passage I read contained two names with tallies beside them. At first glance, I assumed they were the scores of a card game, needing a place to keep track. I read on and discovered the marks were cross-country ski fall counts. On the second day, the fall count for both parties decreased, but there was still a clear winner for who had better cross-country ski balance. Another entry retold the same story my mom and I just lived, people watching from the train, staring, waving, giving the feeling of being a spectacle « like zoo animals ». Other entries detailed friends’ accounts of sharing the cabin, a bottle of wine split with stories told, exactly as I like do with friends. Tales of world-class trundling from the moraine. Families sharing the cabin over a cold Christmas, and wishing they could stay longer. “If only we brought more food!”. Folks complaining about the kerosene stove not being warm enough or not bringing enough fuel despite bringing the ‘recommended’ amount. Entries raving at the views and serenity of the area. Others recounted how they could hear an avalanche come down the valley. I also found many a passage from the avalanche man over the years, his love and care for the area clearly expressed on the pages.
Mom, with Laughton Glacier
I read many accounts in a short time and, in the end, added my own, likely something about being grateful to spend time with my mother.
The logbook connects me to everyone who visited the same cabin over the past four decades. While the world seems fast and changing, 40 years doesn’t change the joy found nestled in a mountain cabin as told by a spiral bound notebook.
Following in Mom’s footsteps
Maybe you will be the one to read my entry in a year or two on your own Alaskan adventure.
Cheers,
Meg
Thanks for posting this, so others can enjoy the experience without having to fly to Alaska.