The Spirit Of The Hut

A Short Story

The way in which the Mint Hut reveals itself to you will leave you giddy, because you’ll be very glad to have concluded a nine-mile hike, but most of all because this little hut is a character. Similar to how a car sometimes appears to have a face, sometimes even wearing an expression, the Mint Hut has personality, a presence, a red beacon of refuge amidst the Alaskan Wilderness. Most mountain huts make me feel this way, they are endearing, tucked away as if waiting just for you, an offering of shelter and protection, a cozy space for an evening of playing cards and drinking tea. I won’t say more about seeing the Mint Hut for the first time, in fear of ruining the surprise for others who venture down the Gold Mint Trail.

I first learned about this hut through an Instagram account, long before arriving in Alaska. I highly recommend following this photographer and outdoorsman, Luke Konarzewski, his account is a beautiful collection of photographs and his stories document epic Alaskan adventures. He has visited the Mint Hut in every season, and the first photograph I saw was from a spring trip when the hut was nearly submerged in snow. Enchanted, I thought to myself, I would really like to be there.

When Emily and I began planning our road trip around Central Alaska she told me she wanted to travel in my style. I wasn’t sure I had a style of traveling, but I guess I do: staying flexible to take opportunities as they come, making an effort to see places off the beaten path, trying to make it as affordable as possible, and generally motivated by spending time in the mountains. The Mint Hut sprung to mind as my style of travel and I proposed the idea to Emily tentatively, with the understanding that hiking 18 miles out and back to spend the night in a mountain hut is not everyone’s idea of a good time.

Emily and I are friends from high school who have since maintained a friendship in the cozy comforts of coffee shops and restaurants in Fort Green, Brooklyn. I had no idea how she would deal with hiking nine miles. What if the weather turned and we had to walk for miles in the cold and wet, what if we met a Grizzly bear along the trail, this was Alaska after all. Emily said she was up for it because it was something she would probably never do. So, as the more seasoned hiker, as the one who had been in Alaska longer, as the one who had perfected her bear calls, as the one who had proposed the adventure, I was now the host. Bearing the responsibility of someone else in the wild is an intense weight. I played through scenarios in which we encountered a Grizzly bear and I threw myself between foe and friend, in which ankles were sprained and heads crashed freakishly into rocks. Once while driving through Michigan with both my sisters asleep in the car, I broke in a cold sweat with the hyper realization of the precious cargo I was transporting at 80 miles an hour, until a slew of good songs on the radio broke this fever of anxiety and my knuckles regained their fleshy color. Eventually my brain stopped playing tragic scenarios. It was far more likely to be an uneventful hike than to end up some horrific news headline, like that poor woman who, while on a run, was hunted down and eaten by wolves.

My sense of overwhelming responsibility subsided to reveal a knot of anticipation stuck in my side, lodged between ribs. It was an instinct, the strong sense that somewhere along the trail we would run into a problem to solve. Years of travel hones one’s sense of this animal quality, of intuition, and of the realities of Murphy’s Law: anything that can go wrong will. A hopeless optimist, I generally reject such a negative perspective. Instead I believe that thinking things will go wrong encourages forces in the universe to prove you right, that thinking something will go wrong manifests it. However, I do believe it is important to set realistic expectations and in doing so, prepare yourself for the possibility that things don’t always go smoothly: you forget to pack something, you miss a bus, you trip and skin your knee. So I listened to my intuition. Despite playing through situations in which Emily and I met a bear, I actually felt confident the complication awaiting us would not be animal related, nor a serious injury. A confidence I did not share aloud for fear of initiating a jinx, I am not overly superstitious but I do believe in staying humble, especially out in nature. No, it was the hut that made me feel uneasy. I was certain we would not have the hut to ourselves, though this was not inherently a problem for sharing is in the very nature of a mountain refuge and we would be glad to share the experience of a cozy evening in the mountains with whoever we came across. No, there was something else, something I couldn’t put my finger on, of course because I cannot predict the future, I was bracing myself.

Arriving at the mountain hut was emotional, as the mountains tend to be. I was relieved that the weather had held up, that the trail wasn’t nearly as as wild or challenging as online accounts suggested, and that we did not encounter any large animals. So far, my intuition had been proven right: no bears and no injuries. Most importantly, Emily had held her own. She was a total champ whose spirit and enthusiasm emanated for the entire hike, who told me a story that lasted four of the nine miles. In short, the perfect hiking companion. Arriving at the hut offered not only relief but a more powerful emotion that comes with travel. The feeling that comes from the phenomenon of arriving at a place you have longed to be, of seeing something with your very own eyes. I had seen a photograph of this hut and now I stood in front of it, and best of all, I was able to share the this moment with a dear friend.

Through this long winded introduction to the Mint Hut, I am hoping to explain how meaningful it was to arrive, so that you might better understand how it all came crashing down.

While I was still living in Haines, Alaska, I had seen that the Gold Mint Trail had been closed on several occasions for maintenance. The same guy behind the instagram account that introduced me to the Mint Hut works for the park service in Alaska and posted about it on his account. I felt relieved that our dates had not overlapped with these closures, a good omen. Then days before, while picking up a massive can of bear spray at the REI in Anchorage, an employee told us the hut had been closed the previous weekend for a group retreat. He declared, “your timing is perfect!” On the day of, I walked across the parking lot to deposit our payment and saw a notice tacked to the board above the drop box, reiterating the hut had been closed during the dates of the previous weekend. Our timing was good, I thought to myself as I walked back to the car, trying to settle the persistent feeling something would go awry.

In the final half mile of trail we came across an older gentleman. He reported a large group were occupying the hut, but assured us there was plenty of room for two more. The boys were sleeping outside in tents, he informed, so there is space inside the hut if you don’t have a tent with you. He was a kind man and gave the impression he had been welcomed warmly by the group, and so would we. My foresight was confirmed, we would share the hut with others, but the knot in my side did not ease. The very opposite, news of this group stoked my sense of this pending hiccup, and as I climbed up the final incline I wondered about the group we were about to meet.

A collection of gear, harnesses, helmets, and ice axes, lined one of the outer walls of the hut, and a water filtration system hung to the left of the doorway. As we approached the front door, stepping into the arctic entrance, we could hear the murmur of people inside. I knocked, paused for a customary moment, and then opened the door and said a cheery hello. From the doorway the cheer of my greeting flew into the single room of the hut, it lingered airborne, and fell with a splat to the floor. It was as if I had tossed a huge pink balloon into the small crowd of people, gathered at the far end of the room, with the suggestion we play the game where you keep it from touching the floor. Not one of the eighteen odd hands concentrated around the room’s table reached towards the incoming balloon, but all eighteen eyes watched it fall to the floor in silence. The eyes stared back towards me with a collective look that suggested I had done something very strange. It would have been very strange if I opened the door to this hut nine miles into the Talkeetna Mountains and tossed a balloon across the room, but to open a door and say hello isn’t strange at all. It was a warm and simple greeting I had offered, one that transmitted the enthusiasm I felt to have finally reached this beautiful place. In the seconds of silence that followed, the voice in my head said, “Ah, this is the awry.”

The lack of reply was hardly the coldest moment in the exchanges that unfolded, but my natural default is to give people the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps they were caught off guard or I interrupted something important. Perhaps they had a challenging day and the arrival of two strangers seemed like additional tribulation. Perhaps it was a classic case of first impressions, they didn’t yet know how interesting and easy going the two ladies standing in their doorway are. Perhaps this public access hut had begun to feel like their home, as was evident by the amount of equipment outside and inside the hut, it was apparent that they had been there for some time. I had deduced that this was the same group mentioned by the dude at REI and the poster in the parking lot, the group who had reserved the hut for the previous weekend closing it to the public. That meant they had been there for over a week, and it would only be natural to feel territorial of the place that had been keeping you warm and dry.

Along with giving people the benefit of the doubt I am always happy to admit my own short comings. I had made a significant misunderstanding regarding the Mint Hut, a side effect of deficient research. I had read that the Mint Hut was a “public access hut” which I understood to mean open to the public. I had also read it followed a first-come first-serve basis, which I understood to mean as long as there was space you could be accommodated. What I failed to read is that because this hut, and the hut system to which it belongs, is operated and maintained by the Mountaineering Club of Alaska, you must be a member to utilize any of these huts. This was a significant oversight, but our motivation here was not a free place to stay. Had I researched the hut properly, reading the official sites pertaining to the hut where this is clearly stated, we would have of course paid the $20 annual fee and become a members before hiking out.

My hello lingered for an uncomfortable amount of time and was never reciprocated. Instead we were asked a series of questions, coated in unfriendly judgment and belittlement, to which I would say Emily and I answered with uncanny diplomacy. It was an older man, whose face, dress and air told of a lifetime in the mountains, who set the unwelcome tone. He was clearly the alpha of the group. “The hut is closed. Didn’t you see the sign at the parking lot?” He asked with a tone that seemed to hope I would answer we were oblivious to the sign. His question felt similar to when a parent already knows the answer but asks anyways to test if the truth is told. And like the child deciding how to answer, I felt I was in trouble whatever my reply.

I was glad to prove him wrong and replied kindly, overlooking his tone, “I did see the sign. However, it specified the hut was closed across the dates of last weekend. It said nothing about this week so we assumed it was okay to come out here.” As quickly as I could I added how the man at REI had also informed us about this, not to reinforce my point but to prolong my reply, to see if the sweetness of my voice and disposition might ease the tension in the room. I knew my attempted charm would have no effect on the old man, so I directed my reply to the room looking for a friend.

The old man then explained two things. Their original objective had been to traverse the hut system: Mint Hut to Bomber Hut to Snowbird Hut. However, weather over the last week had socked in the mountain pass and with low visibility they had been unable to continue on. Instead the Mint Hut had become their base camp from which they had spent the last six days completing their mountaineering course in a series of day expeditions. He added that we had interrupted a lesson they were working on before calling it a day, a wilderness medicine simulation. I interjected to apologize for the interruption and ensure we would not be a disruption to any other part of their evening. He pressed on, explaining the hut belonged only to members of the Mountaineering Club of Alaska, “and are you members?” Again with a tone that hoped I would say no and this time he would be satisfied. I replied that we were not members and explained my misunderstanding: thinking “public access” meant open to the public. I took the opportunity to, with millennial self awareness, exhibit complete ownership of my short comings with the hope that my integrity might be granted some understanding in return.

Unexpectedly, the only woman in the group chimed in with “and you didn’t bring a tent?” A question and a judgment at the same time. “Well, no. I thought since we are here mid-week and I have been dreaming of staying in this hut all summer, I would risk it. I see now I should have brought a tent as backup, but we are really easy going, happy to squeeze in anywhere, even under the table.” I attempted a joke, though really we would happily sleep under the table. The joke was more for myself then the group. I was desperate not to show my disappointment in this exchange, how exhausting it was to overlook their coldness towards us, how the magic of arriving at the hut had been replaced with dread.

Her question about a tent encouraged a series of questions from the old man that were particularly offensive, tinged with misogamy. They seemed to derive from the logic that if we had not brought a tent, did we women folk bring anything. “Did we bring warm clothes? Did we have food? Did we have fuel? Did we have sleeping bags?” I wanted to say, “Excuse me, but you are talking to two world travelers. I have been traveling for three years, largely alone, across the entire planet, so yes, I had the foresight to bring a sleeping bag, thank you.” Of course, that is not what I replied. One of my governing beliefs is to show people kindness regardless. To take the high road, to smother people in kindness, though I don’t like those phrases, I practice the sentiment. So instead, I explained in a kind, patient tone that yes, we did bring these essential items to stay safe and comfortable.

The next day when all was forgiven, these questions felt especially unnecessary when I saw the old man pull on his backpack. He and I shared the same pack and it’s no Jansport. They are handmade in Maine by a small company who gained traction over the last five years making ultralight gear made of dyneema, a crinkly waterproof fabric, popular with long distance hikers and alpinist. Since I have been overseas for sometime, living on an island in the Norwegian Arctic, I believed these packs to be more obscure than they are. Since landing in Washington State I have seen them frequently along the trail. Now, I would never suggest that the wearing of gear communicates ability, experience, or a skill set, however, the anthropologist in me cannot ignore the signaling inherent to gear. We draw conclusions about people in the outdoors based on the gear they are wearing, the embroidered branding, the equipment carried. There is no way this old man and I had comparable skills, if for no other reason than he had lived three times my age and is an Alaskan. But perhaps my pack might have suggested that at the very least I had the wherewithal to pack food for an overnight camping trip. He was not the first man to express doubt in my and Emily’s abilities. A man at REI and a man working at the nearby Independence Mine State Historic Park had, after looking us up and down, reminded “you know it’s nine miles to the hut.” Yes, we did know the mileage of the hike we were about to embark on. Perhaps it was concern they offered not doubt, perhaps it was genuine and not prejudice, but I wonder.

So far this conversation felt like building a case: why we should be granted shelter here. And the old man held the gravel, the power to grant or deny us. Yet, there was no alternative. It was already evening and despite their disdain, they were hardly going to cast us out into the night. We were at an uncomfortable stalemate, while I admitted faults and offered apologies they had remained unwavering in their subtextual rejection of our presence. I couldn’t help but think it would have been easier to welcome us and over a warm drink discus the logistics of where we could squeeze in. A romantic notion certainly, but why not, that is what I would have done in reversed roles. Instead we were playing a laborious game of who was in the right and who in the wrong. As someone who finds it easy to admit fault, I would have gladly shouted I was wrong from the tiny roof of this tiny hut if it would ease this tension. My internal dialogue was interrupted by the old man and his direction to read the sign on the door, the door who’s frame we still stood within as we had not be invited inside.

Emily and I shuffled back slightly so we could read over the sign as instructed. I pulled the door nearly closed not to better read the sign, but to act as a barrier between us and the palpable negativity in the hut. I tried to read the sign but it took me a few tries to digest the words with my mind running. As I read the first couple bullet points my spirits lifted slightly. We had been instructed to read the sign as if it would prove that we had been utterly wrong to have made this journey with the expectation to sleep in the hut. However, I was amused to read that those in the hut should welcome those who come after. We had most certainly not been welcomed. At the bottom of the page it did state that priority should be granted to members of the Mountaineering Club of Alaska, a fair point. However, we did not require the hut in its entirety, we needed a mere corner. The Mint Hut is surprisingly spacious inside and with the boys sleeping in tents, only the four adult chaperones were sleeping in the hut, up in the loft. There was plenty of space for two more.

I swung the door open once again to resume our discussion. Both times I had opened this door I stood slightly ahead of Emily and thus, had taken the brunt of the conversation. As the self proclaimed host of this venture I also felt it was my responsibility to reconcile this conflict. However, I was growing exhausted as we continued to talk in circles, my every attempt to win an inch of favor or understanding, to be invited inside thwarted. I began to retreat slightly, withdrawing into myself to shelter from their rudeness and negativity. In my withdrawal I missed the comment that provoked Emily to speak.

“Yes but, in the spirit of the mountain hut” she proclaimed.

Yes, I thought to myself, where was the spirit, the camaraderie. Were we not united by the nine mile hike we had all walked to get here, by the shared interest to visit this place. Had we not proven ourselves to be kind, understanding, requesting simply to share in the shelter of this hut. As I saw it, our fault was a technicality, we were not members of the Mountaineering Club of Alaska, but one easily remedied. We would join the club tomorrow when we had cell service. Their fault was denying two people shelter, simply to share, a fundamental virtue.

Emily’s comment refilled me and I decided to take control of the stalemate. “Okay. We are going to step outside, have a look around and leave you to your lesson.” I nodded over to Emily and she smiled in agreement. I wanted to sound casual, unaffected, and at the same time hoped a graceful exit would leave them feeling bad for how they had treated us. Before closing the door I turned back to say, “Oh, and my name is Lily and my friend is Emily.” With that I closed the door and the two of us retreated outside into the fresh air. I hoped they might strew in their reaction to us but most of all, I hoped they would have a change of heart.

We walked around the backside of the hut where a cluster of rocks invited us to sit down, finally. I dumped by pack on the ground and then myself upon a rock, carelessly and rather childishly. I was bruised by the groups rejection and tired, we had walked all this way only to find ourselves in frustrating negotiations. Emily, of thicker skin, was less weighed down by the exchange and stated mater of factly, “well, we are staying in the hut regardless.” It was true, we were staying in the hut with or without their blessing, but I was saddened to think our one evening here would be spent tip toeing around people who did not care to share. A mountain hut is much too small a space to co exist with tension. Emily and I sat in silence for a little while and in an effort to lift myself out of defeat I looked around, we had not yet had a moment to take in the surroundings. I could hear the soft running of nearby streams, and though I couldn’t see the cold and clear pristine water skipping down hill, knowing it was near made me feel better. But the mountains, seen through saddened lenses, were filtered by my hurt. Their peaks sharp like teeth, jagged and uninviting. I imagined them the teeth of the old man, the pearly white peaks of his mouth with which he had ushered his unwelcome thoughts into unkind words. Stop being dramatic, I told myself, they will come around.

The group began to stir. We could hear them inside the hut bustling around, finishing the lecture portion of their wilderness medicine lesson and moving on to the simulation. Had they discussed us, I wondered. A few of the teenage boys walked by and sheepishly said hello, they seemed very sweet. Two chaperones followed soon after, one nodded and kept moving, the other stoped and introduced himself. You know when someone is upset and so you test them with a joke to see if they will laugh, instead of apologizing. The joke is an olive branch and if accepted with a laugh or smile then all is forgiven, again without say it. The light conversation between us and this man was just that, a timid prod to test our reply and despite my bruises, I was not interested in holding a grudge. We swapped pleasantries for a short time before he excused himself, the simulation was beginning and he had to assume his role of the injured person. I watched him walk over to the boys and lay down at the base of a large boulder, they would all pretend he had fallen off a cliff and was unresponsive.

I felt my cloud of gloom lift, replaced by hope that this evening could be saved. Suddenly I was very hungry. “Dinner?” I asked Emily and dug through my pack to find food. We relocated to a huge boulder on the north side of the hut for a better view of the mountains and sunset. Several times the chaperones coming in and out of the hut called out for us have our dinner inside, in the warmth, we would have it to ourselves for the next hour while they worked through their simulation. We said we were fine for now, the view was too good to miss but finally, we had been invited inside.

Eventually, the cold chased us indoors. As we entered through the threshold of the hut for the second time, and into the now empty room, it felt very special to have the place to ourselves. I made some tea for us to share and we made ourselves at home around the table. A thick layer of all the little things you need in the outdoors coated the table: gloves, sunglasses, water bottles, various creams, matches and lighters, a rogue toothbrush, forgotten Cliff bar, maps and one book. I reached across and slid the book closer to read it’s cover. The title read Letters From A Skeptic: A Son Wrestles With His Father’s Questions Of Christianity. I slid the book to Emily who read the title, raised her eyebrows as I thought she would, not with judgement but intrigue, and flipped through the pages. “Where we not just two Mary’s knocking on the door of a small mountain hut asking for shelter? We weren't even seeking for a place to give birth, just a place to lie our heads for the night.” Had this not been an opportunity moment to practice many a core value of this theology or any one of it’s relative religions: the loving of thy neighbor, the generosity, kindness, forgiveness, the treating of others how you would want to be treated. An anthropologist through and through, this rant of mine was not anger, I was fascinated. Humans are endlessly fascinating.

The group slowly trickled back into the hut as their day concluded. Pulling off layers of coats, hats and gloves, the boys squeezed onto the beach across the table from us. One by one we were introduced to the whole party and across the next few hours the spirit and camaraderie I had longed for slowly became. We shared stories of travels, one of the chaperones had also lived in Germany for years and we reminisced together, we learned about their mountaineering course and played trivial pursuit. Then we were invited to take part in their evening ritual, reading and discussing a few chapters of a book, the one we had found. It was beautiful to watch these generation confer over their faith, to watch young minds interpret text, reading so actively as to lift the words off pages. These are the moments of travel that I thrive to encounter, a peak inside the world of another. The evening we shared was well worth the discomforts of our initial introduction, our first impressions of one another.

We did indeed build our beds under the kitchen table that night, though not in an attempt to minimize our presence in the hut. Sleeping under the table was like building a fort, a nest, it was cozy and private. Many times we were offered extra comforts, extra sleeping bags and sleeping pads by our now friends. All was forgiven. As I lay in my bed, looking up at the underbelly of the table reading names etched across the wood, I felt very glad for this day, even for the challenges. Although there had been this hiccup, this problem to solve, a cold welcome to slowly thaw, it would make for a good story to tell.

P.S

I hesitate to share this story. At times I felt like I was throwing this group under a bus and that is not my style. There are two sides to every story and this is just my side, my experience. However, I ultimately share this tale because it is a parable. The lessons are plenty and far reaching, lessons I will carry with me for some time. This experience was an example of first impressions, of letting go and forgiveness. Even more interesting, it is a reminder that people are all governed by systems of belief, whether those beliefs are individually curated like my own that I identify throughout the story, or ancient institutions, humans and their systems are wonderful and flawed. There is theory and there is practice. Even though this conflict did not feel good in the moment, finding harmony and connection with others is always rewarding.