Roman Dial’s first encounter with Dick Griffith at the Alaska Mountain Wilderness Classic pretty much encapsulated the spirit of the man Dial called the “grandfather of modern Alaskan adventure.”

Griffith invited the 21-year-old Dial, who was traveling without a tent, to bunk with him while rain fell in Hope at the onset of the inaugural race. And then the white-haired Griffith proceeded to beat virtually the entire field of racers — most of whom were 30 years his junior — to the finish line in Homer.

Griffith, who died earlier this month at age 98, was a prodigious adventurer with a sharp wit who fostered a growing community of fellow explorers who shared his yearning for the Alaska outdoors.

Dial was one of the many acolytes who took Griffith’s outdoors ethos and applied it to his own adventures across the state.

“Someone once told me once that the outdoor adventure scene is like this big tapestry that we all add on to,” Dial said. “And where somebody else is sort of woven in something, we pick up and kind of riff on that. And he added a really big band to that tapestry, and then the rest of us are just sort of picking up where he left off.”

On that first meeting at the race in 1982, Dial and the other Alaska Mountain Wilderness Classic competitors got a sense of Griffith’s humor as well. In a story that is now Alaska outdoors lore, Griffith pulled a surprise move at the race’s first river crossing, grabbing an inflatable vinyl raft out of his pack and leaving the field in his rear view.

“You young guys may be fast, but you eat too much and don’t know nothin’,” Dial recalls Griffith quipping as he pushed off.

“Old age and treachery beats youth and skill every time.”

In those years, Griffith may have been known for his old age as much as anything. But it didn’t take long for the 50-something racing against a much younger crowd to make a mark.

Kathy Sarns was a teenager when she first met Griffith in the early 1980s, and the topic of the Alaska Mountain Wilderness Classic came up.

“He says, ‘You want to do that race? I think a girl could do that race,’ ” Sarns recalls. “And I’m thinking, ‘Who is this old guy?’ And then he says, ‘If you want to do the race, give me a call. I’ll take you.’ ”

Sarns took up Griffith on the offer and in 1984, she and her friend Diane Catsam became the first women to complete the race.

Sarns said the adventures “fed his soul,” and were infectious for those who watched Griffith and joined him along the way.

“He motivated and inspired so many people by what he was doing,” Sarns said. “It’s like, well if he can do that, then I guess I could do this.”

By the time Dial and Sarns had met Griffith, he had already established a resume for exploring that was likely unmatched in the state.

In the late 1950s, Griffith walked 500 miles from Kaktovik to Anaktuvuk Pass, passing through the Brooks Range. Later he went from Kaktovik to Kotzebue in what is believed to be the first documented traverse of the range.

In total, Griffith logged over 10,000 miles in the Alaska and Canadian Arctic. He raced the 210-mile Iditaski multiple times.

Starting in his 60s, Griffith made annual trips north to tackle a 4,000-mile route from Unalakleet to Hudson Bay in northeastern Canada. At age 73, he completed the journey.

“The reason he did a lot of trips by himself is because nobody could keep up,” Dial said.

Born in Colorado, Griffith grew up in rural Wyoming during the Great Depression.

The first Griffith adventure that evolved into lore was the story of how he met his wife, Isabelle.

In 1949, Griffith was plotting a trip from Green River, Wyoming, to Lee’s Ferry, Arizona — a 900-mile trip down the Green and Colorado rivers.

Isabelle said she’d fund the trip if she could come along. She did, and the two were soon married. After a series of other river adventures, the couple moved to Alaska in 1954.

The couple had two children, son Barney and daughter Kimmer.

John Lapkass was introduced to Griffith through Barney, a friend with whom Lapkass shared outdoor adventures.

Like many, Lapkass connected with Griffith’s wry sense of humor. Griffith would write “Stolen from Dick Griffith” on all of his gear, often accompanied by his address.

In Alaska, Griffith basically pioneered rafting as a form of getting deep into the Alaska backcountry.

Anchorage’s Luc Mehl has himself explored large swaths of the state in a packraft. An outdoors educator and author, Mehl met Griffith over the years at the barbecues he hosted leading up to the Alaska Wilderness Classic.

Although he didn’t embark on any adventures with Griffith, Mehl was amazed at how much accomplished well into his 80s.

“There are people in these sports that show the rest of us what’s possible,” Mehl said. “It would be dangerous if everybody just tried what Dick did. But there is huge value in inspiration. Just to know it’s a possibility is pretty damn special.”

Griffith continued to explore and compete. He ran his last Alaska Mountain Wilderness Classic at age 81 and continued with rafting trips through the Grand Canyon into his late 80s.

John Clark’s dad worked with Griffith on Amchitka Island in the early 1960s, assisting with drilling on the Aleutian island before it was used for nuclear testing.

Clark went to high school in Anchorage and regularly joined Griffith on a weekend ski, often tackling the Arctic Valley to Indian traverse.

Clark described the 21-mile trek through the Chugach Mountains as a “walk in the park” for Griffith, a brisk workout to keep him prepped for bigger adventures.

“I was a teenager and I liked to sleep in,” Clark said. “And he wouldn’t even ask me. He would just come knock on my door at 8 a.m. and say, ‘Get your skis.’ ”

Many of those adventures were done mostly anonymously as a course of habit with friends, some only finding out after the fact what Griffith had accomplished.

“He had the heart of an explorer,” Clark said. “Dick’s exploring 40 years ago would have been with the pure motivation of finding out if he could get from here to there.”

Griffith also was well-known for officiating marriages across the state. He married Sarns and her husband, Pat Irwin, as well as Lapkass and his wife.

“I don’t know how it started,” Lapkass said. “We weren’t the first but it was kind of special. Everybody sort of wanted him to do the honors.”

He would celebrate the matrimonies with annual “Still Married” parties at his house on the Hillside, open to both those who remained married and even those who didn’t. He continued to officiate marriages until the last few years.

As the community of outdoor enthusiasts grew, the parties at Griffith’s weren’t only held to celebrate marriages. He regularly had big gatherings at his house on Sundays and for the holidays, bringing together his “orphans,” many of whom had no immediate family in the state.

The gatherings were a great time to bring new friends into the fold and rehash old adventures. One story — perhaps more a favorite of guests than the host — involved an instance where Griffith had a bad case of frostbite on his backside after being battered by frigid tailwinds.

“I don’t know how many Thanksgiving or Christmas dinners we had there,” Sarns said. “Always plenty of food and lots of laughter, and that’s where we’d pull out the photos of him recovering in the hospital.”

In 2012, Alaska author Kaylene Johnson-Sullivan published “Canyons and Ice: The Wilderness Travels of Dick Griffith,” which covered his hundreds of adventures through Alaska and beyond.

The film “Canyons & Ice: The Last Run of Dick Griffith” documented his career and last trip through the Grand Canyon at age 89.

While his achievements were documented in his later years, Lapkass said Griffith’s motivations for being in the wilderness were almost completely internal.

“He was quite an inspiration for a lot of folks,” Lapkass said. “He wasn’t looking for sponsorship, for money or big TV productions or anything. He just felt like doing it. So he did it. And that definitely impressed a lot of people. Because some folks, you know, they want to do stuff, but then they want to let everybody know that they did it.”

As his life went on, Griffith was deeply involved with the Eagle River Nature Center as a board member, trail worker and financial donor.

Perhaps Griffith’s biggest gift to the outdoors community was a dose of self-confidence, a little extra boost to reach that next peak.

“Everybody that came near him benefited,” Sarns said. “Just because it just made you think outside the box a little more, being around him. You may push yourself maybe a little more, whether it’s an extra mile or an extra 100 miles. For some people it was just, ‘Hey maybe I can just go climb that mountain after all.’ ”

ANCHORAGE, Alaska (KTUU) – At Saturday’s 17th Annual Polar Plunge for Special Olympics Alaska, participants jumped into Goose Lake’s chilly water for a cause.

“The wind today, it’s a cold one,” the organization’s President and CEO, Sarah Arts, said.

More than 800 people came out to jump into the lake, she said. They exceeded their fundraising goal by late morning.

She said it means a lot to the athletes to know that the community is behind them.

“Inclusion is such a big part of what we do, and sport is a universal language. And through sport, everyone can be included. And it’s so amazing to see the community out here,” Arts said.

She said there were hot tubs for participants to warm up in afterward they jumped into the lake.

“I have to give some shout-outs to South High School Partners Club. Those students had some very creative plunges. A couple of face plants, belly flops. We had a back flip. So, they’re really getting creative today,” she said.

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KOTZEBUE, Alaska (AP) — The low autumn light turned the tundra gold as James Schaeffer, 7, and his cousin Charles Gallahorn, 10, raced down a dirt path by the cemetery on the edge of town. Permafrost thaw had buckled the ground, tilting wooden cross grave markers sideways. The boys took turns smashing slabs of ice that had formed in puddles across the warped road.

Their great-grandfather, Roswell Schaeffer, 78, trailed behind. What was a playground to the kids was, for Schaeffer – an Inupiaq elder and prolific hunter – a reminder of what warming temperatures had undone: the stable ice he once hunted seals on, the permafrost cellars that kept food frozen all summer, the salmon runs and caribou migrations that once defined the seasons.

Now another pressure loomed. A 211-mile mining road that would cut through caribou and salmon habitat was approved by the Trump administration this fall, though the project still faces lawsuits and opposition from environmental and native groups. Schaeffer and other critics worry it could open the region to outside hunters and further devastate already declining herds. “If we lose our caribou – both from climate change and overhunting – we’ll never be the same,” he said. “We’re going to lose our culture totally.”

Still, Schaeffer insists on taking the next generation out on the land, even when the animals don’t come. It was late September and he and James would normally have been at their camp hunting caribou. But the herd has been migrating later each year and still hadn’t arrived – a pattern scientists link to climate change, mostly caused by the burning of oil, gas and coal. So instead of caribou, they scanned the tundra for swans, ptarmigan and ducks.

A lifetime of hunting

Caribou antlers are stacked outside Schaeffer’s home. Traditional seal hooks and whale harpoons hang in his hunting shed. Inside, a photograph of him with a hunted beluga is mounted on the wall beside the head of a dall sheep and a traditional mask his daughter Aakatchaq made from caribou hide and lynx fur.

He got his first caribou at 14 and began taking his own children out at 7. James made his first caribou kill this past spring with a .22 rifle. He teaches James what his father taught him: that power comes from giving food and a hunter’s responsibility is to feed the elders.

“When you’re raised an Inupiaq, your whole being is to make sure the elders have food,” he said.

But even as he passes down those lessons, Schaeffer worries there won’t be enough to sustain the next generation – or to sustain him. “The reason I’ve been a successful hunter is the firm belief that, when I become old, people will feed me,” he said. “My great-grandson and my grandson are my future for food.”

That future feels tenuous

These days, they’re eating less hunted food and relying more on farmed chicken and processed goods from the store. The caribou are fewer, the salmon scarcer, the storms more severe. Record rainfall battered Northwest Alaska this year, flooding Schaeffer’s backyard twice this fall alone. He worries about the toll on wildlife and whether his grandchildren will be able to live in Kotzebue as the changes accelerate.

“It’s kind of scary to think about what’s going to happen,” he said.

That afternoon, James ducked into the bed of Schaeffer’s truck and aimed into the water. He shot two ducks. Schaeffer helped him into waders – waterproof overalls – so they could collect them and bring them home for dinner, but the tide was too high. They had to turn back without collecting the ducks.

The changes weigh on others, too. Schaeffer’s friend, writer and commercial fisherman Seth Kantner grew up along the Kobuk River, where caribou once reliably crossed by the hundreds of thousands.

“I can hardly stand how lonely it feels without all the caribou that used to be here,” he said. “This road is the largest threat. But right beside it is climate change.”

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Follow Annika Hammerschlag on Instagram @ahammergram.

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