Chasing the Goddess

I would have come on this trip with my dad if the only highlight was a binocular-aided view of the West Podunk landfill.  But the fact that DENALI was part of the trip certainly sweetened the deal.

Denali.

I should really just stop there.

Denali.

But that only works if you have seen her. 

My paternal grandparents sparked my interest in Alaska in general and Denali in particular when I was in grade school.  When my grandfather retired from the Forest Service, he and my grandmother traveled a lot, and often, their return trips involved a stop at our Missoula, Montana house.  In our darkened basement, I would lay on the floor, tummy to the rug, feet flapping over me, listening to the “schbook-slonk” of Grandpa’s slide projector as he reported on their latest adventure.  I understand that slide shows like that have been the butt of endless jokes in my generation, but I loved them.  Through Grandpa’s slide shows, I could see the world – Amsterdam, Tenochtitlan, Denali – and when I went to bed at night, these exotic visions beckoned through my dreams.

Funny then, to fall asleep all these years later knowing that the next day, I would go to DENALI.  Like nesting dolls, technically, the mountain is inside the park, but in many ways the mountain is the park.  Denali National Park and Preserve, 6 million acres of land you and I own, encompasses braided rivers, miles and miles of tundra, and much of the Alaska Range, made up of jaw-dropping cliffs and peaks including Forraker (17,402’), Hunter (14,573’), Silverthrone (13, 219’) and the tallest mountain in North America, the goddess, Denali (20, 310’ on a bad day). 

These are not even the tall mountains

The guides, the tourists, and the locals interchangeably call her Denali or “the mountain;” no matter how many bears or moose you see, everyone will ask, “Did you see the mountain? " And seeing Denali is no small feat.  She is so tall (3.5 miles vertically from her base) that everyone will tell you, “Denali creates her own weather.”  Shifting dramatically from clear to cloudy, Denali’s weather can delay climbers for days at the 7000+ foot base camp while freezing temperatures and 100 mph winds try to run them off the mountain.  The weather can likewise frustrate the less intrepid who can only see etchings on the visitor’s center windows indicating where the mountain would be “IF we had a clear day.” 

Our day was not clear. 

We took a bus into the park (no private cars are allowed in the interior of the park), and our bus driver, Rex, was a hoot.  The cloudy, wet day felt chilly to most of us who wore long pants, long-sleeved shirts, sweatshirts, raincoats, hats, and gloves.  Rex, and most of the other drivers we saw, wore long pants and short sleeved shirts.  We gawked at the scenery, searched for bear, moose, wolves, caribou, Dall sheep, and eagles, and marveled at the drivers who negotiated the twisting, barely two lane road into the park. 

Caribou

 

That's a baby moose.
(OUT side the bus)

We toured the visitor’s center and walked in the spongy muskeg, admiring the peace, the wildflowers, and the seemingly endless wilderness.  At any point in the park, hikers can head off into the backcountry.  I was ill-prepared, in my suburbanite rainy day clothes, my tiny nylon backpack holding our minimal survival gear – two chicken-salad sandwiches, two apples, one (?) water bottle, and a camera – but how my feet itched to follow the hikers who just walked off the bus and into the wild. I wisely ignored that itch, and, truly, we had a wonderful day in the park

My traveling companion, my dad

But we did not see the mountain. 

The next morning, my walk took me back to the park where I wandered all the trails around the Visitor’s Center.  As is my want, I walked alone, but tried to make as much noise as possible, kept my eyes peeled for baby moose wandering away from mommy, and practiced looking tall (I have very little to work with there!), and rehearsed my stern command,  “Bad wolf. Go home!”  A snowshoe hare crossed my path. 

I did not see the mountain.

Later that day, Dad and I took TWO trips down the Park Road hoping to catch her.  Disappointed by the clouds that hung on the horizon, we turned around from the unsuccessful second trip, only to see, in our review mirror a cloud suddenly become a mountain.  Pulling to the side of the road, we shared a moment of adulation with total strangers; with or without binoculars, she was a sight that defied photographs.   

Denali.  Beyond words.   

Above the tree center right, the bump in the clouds?
Denali

*A side note for the McKinley fans out there, Denali means “the big one” in the native Athabascan tongue. Renaming the peak “McKinley” may have earned attention for the area or the gold prospector who wished to honor the presidential nominee in 1896. However,   the natives of the area would never insult a mountain with the name of a mere mortal.  It appears that many locals continued to call her Denali, and in 2015, the original name was officially recognized.