My favorite Place

Dad attaches "Alaska or Bust" sign;
Motor home in background

On May 22, 2017, I zipped up my huge suitcase, gave the house one last careful review, and headed to O’Hare to begin the Great Alaskan Father-Daughter Adventure.  For almost three months, I traveled with Dad through the beautiful scenery of northern Canada and Alaska.  Accompanied for the first weeks by sister Mel, we saw brown bears and bald eagles, glaciers and the midnight sun.  We laughed a lot, walked a lot, cried some, and covered many, many miles in that gorgeous Winnebago Tour -- my Dad's  house on wheels.  

Since my return to Chicagoland four months ago, friends and co-workers have shaken their heads in wonder at the very idea of three months in a motor home and the wonders of the far north. 

They ask, “What was the best thing?”

The best?  From the first day out of Bothell, Washington each turn of the highway brought something new and amazing. 

•       The snowy peaks that greeted us along the Sea-to-Sky highway took my breath away.
•        So did the look of terror on Melanie’s face as Dad drove the 44- foot motor home up and down 13% grades with drop-off views of spring-green creek beds far, far below our side windows. 
•         Friendly new smiles welcomed us in Whistler when we joined up with Roger and Madeline – What could be better than meeting people who care about us just because we’re Susan and Dave’s kids? (What could be better, at my age, than to be a “kid” to someone?).   
•         A Pileated Woodpecker at our front door the second morning tap-tap-tapped a greeting I hope to never forget – I chose to see the bird my mom had sought and rarely seen as a blessing on our family adventure.   
•        The lovely clamor icy mountain falls re-initiated me to the west – where icy waters dance and romp across glacial rocks like children at last released for summer vacation.
  
  

     

Dad at Twin Falls

• At rain-soaked Hyder, we got our first glimpse of Alaska –and our first of many celebratory reunions after motor home repairs.
•        Uniquely grey green glacial waters at first surprised us and then became a familiar sign documenting the terrain through which we traveled. 

  

  Glacial silt colors the water
   of Tagish Lake

•        The aquamarine blue of glacial ice reflected the beaming summer sun – as seen from the back window of a tiny red airplane high above Denali. 
•        The whale’s tail dipping gracefully into the frozen sea.
•        Puffins.
•        Bellowing baleful sea lions basking like Degas’s bathers gone mad in Prince William Sound
•        Fragmented tales from those who came before us played out in cairns and roadside graffiti and mysterious messages spelled out in stone along the highways.

  

  Dad at Denali National Park

•        The Alaskan Highway
•         Miles Canyon
•         Denali
•         Glaciers, glaciers, and glaciers.

The wonders never stopped, and I loved it all.  And . . .  The best thing? None of the above.  

Ours was a small and pretty normal family. We played games, we watched movies, we talked politics, world events, and daily life over family dinners -- and, as all who knew her will agree, during all of those moments, Mom pretty much ran the show. Through those family events and even as an adult,  I  knew my dad second-hand, always filtered through the loving dominance of my mom.  Without her for the first time in our family life, Dad and I had to forge a different relationship.  For three months, we shared simple daily decisions -- do we breakfast on Melanie Eggs or peanut butter toast?  Do we grill steaks or cheese sandwiches?  Are we out of wheat thins?  Classical music or bluegrass?  Are we sick of Sinatra yet?  We shopped -- got lost looking for the inserts to the popcorn popper,  searched for motor home parts, and got carded buying booze in Alaska.  Seriously.  We problem-solved -- created settings for me on the driver's side of the car, replaced the air pump on the master bed,  negotiated that big old bus into the alignment shop, and held the front steps together with Velcro and an old rag.  We read books -- Alaska; The Call of the Wild; Wager the Wind: The Don Sheldon Story.  Dad read Robert Service poems aloud and shared memories of his own dad's love for the Bard of the Yukon -- memorably reading of "The Cremation of Sam McGee" as we stood in the boat garage of the Teslin Tlingit Heritage Centre.   He beat me, every time, at Gin Rummy.  

Sometimes, we drove in companionable silence;  sometimes, we scoured the landscape for wildlife (we slowed for "moose" that turned out to be road bikers, "bears" that we nothing more than burned out trees or large rocks).  We got arrival and departure down to a science.  Well -- there was the time we forgot to disconnect the hoses . . . and the time I left the brakes on in the car . . . and the time I left the car windows open . . . but other than the picnic table that got too close, we caused no harm. 

My favorite place, the place I miss the most?  Right there, in the passenger seat, with my dad driving the bus.  

Dad, driving the bus

Worries

Despite the easy access to wilderness and the occasional moose parading the highway, lives in Fairbanks and Anchorage appear to move along about the way they do in Elgin, IL.  People hurry home from the office, pick up their kids from soccer practice, wait impatiently at traffic lights, and scramble for parking spots at the Wal-Mart.  In Anchorage, homeless men and women congregate in parks and at bus stops, and imagining the short summers and long, cold winters of their lives ignites my empathy.  But city life is really not Alaska as the rest of the state experiences it. Outside of the two “big cities,” the problems of the lower 48 telescope through the long lens of 1000+ miles.  In most towns, there are no Wal-Marts, no office buildings, and rarely a traffic light.  Serious medical care requires an airlift; drinking water is flown into towns like Chicken and Eagle.  When running out of diapers means a four hour drive and when beating winter’s cold depends on the cords of wood you can chop and stack and the meat you can collect in your freezer,  the quotidian worries about hair color, lawn care, and the pounds you can bench-press don’t just fade; they probably never existed at all.  I’m not romanticizing or belittling either existence.  Whether we live in sunny California, small town Iowa, or the urban sprawl of America’s big cities, we have our share of joys and challenges.  But staying in semi-remote Alaska, even as a tourist in a beautifully accommodated motorhome, has given me perspective. 

As we drove through small villages in Alaska and the Yukon, I looked askance, through my lower-48 suburban eyes, at the piles of junk that surrounded each home and business – stacks of wooden pallets, pieces of old cars, huge 55 gallon drums – and I wondered how they could live with all that junk around their homes.  But those obstacle course yards also reminded me of my maternal grandparents.  Gramma’s house and yard were immaculate, the floors were warmed by rugs she made by braiding rags, the beds covered in warm quilts made from discarded clothes.  She made basinets for our dolls from discarded margarine tubs.  Grampa’s garage workshop was tidy and well organized, but also full of used pieces of metal, scraps of rope, and other miscellany with which he could repair anything.  My mom’s parents were not wealthy, but they lived a comfortable and happy life by making every possible use of the materials they had at hand.  The people of Alaska and the Yukon, like my Depression-surviving grandparents, save everything – old cars, scraps of metal, anything wooden – because when the car breaks down, when the wood runs out, when a table, stove, or shelf breaks,  they may not have the option of running to Wal-Mart or ordering from Amazon.  They may need to make do with materials close at hand.   

One native woman we talked to, Allison, shared the hunting traditions of the Tr’ondëk Hwëch’in.  She related her own story of catching her first elk and the traditional expectation that young hunters dress their first kills independently.  The native conventions for dressing and processing the animal have been handed down generation to generation, and the samples she showed us of tools made from bone, ropes made from sinew, and clothes made from hide were new – Testament to the “waste not” mentality of life in the far north. 

Don’t get me wrong.  We didn’t see a single soul wandering the streets dressed in old buffalo hides.  Other than customer service workers dressed in character, everyone we saw wore mass-produced clothing, likely purchased at the local Wal-Mart, even if it was 200 miles away.  But we did see less makeup, less gelled and colored hair, and far less bondage-inspired footwear.  We saw some lovely gardens, but almost no manicured grass.  And cars?  Scratched paint, dented doors, and chipped windshields make a statement all their own – a vehicle without such character screams "chechako.*"

I left Elgin worried about the Illinois state budget and about my garden.  I worried about leaving my work and about preparing for the next semester.  Even though my sons are adults, I worried about being out of contact for so long.  Inside, I was still numb with grief, and apprehensive about how my dad, sister, and I would manage traveling in a space so infused with my mom’s presence.  Leaving the Yukon, Alaska a far dot in our review mirrors, we retrace some of the roads we took going in.  Entering Prince George, where we had impatiently waited for RV repairs in May, I looked over at Dad, noting, “We’re different.” 

“I know,” he said. 

*Chechako = new-comer, greenhorn

The Bear Truth

Miles Canyon

The mighty Yukon River, winding north to the Bering Sea, provided water transport for the hopeful men and women surging toward their future on Easy Street via the gold-rich creeks outside of Dawson City.  For many such hopefuls, the Klondike Gold Rush started with the brutal hike up the Chilkoot Trail, followed by a stop at Bennet Lake to construct boats for their journey up the Yukon.  Depending on the skill and materials with which they assembled their watercraft, the journey up the Yukon either endangered their lives or took them.  Adding to the risk were the white waters of Miles Canyon and Whitehorse Rapids.  Although the rapids were tamed in the 1950s with construction of the Whitehorse Dam, Miles Canyon remains a breathtakingly beautiful sight,

Morning in Miles Canyon

 
and the trails that follow along the canyon provide plenty of opportunity to meditate on nature’s awesome power and the intrepid spirit of those who traveled the Yukon in search of their dreams. 

I spent many soulful and happy hours exploring these beautiful trails.  On our last morning in Whitehorse (due to a broken tire, we spent 10 days!), I asked Dad to drive up a dirt road to see if we could more easily access the Canyon City site I had hiked to the day before.   Stopping at a likely but unmarked turn, I jumped out of the car, telling him I would “Just check it out and be right back.”  I wanted to show him the site of Canyon City where gold rushers arrived on boats they had built after hauling one ton of supplies up the Chilkoot Trail.  I wanted him to see where entrepreneurs had built taglines (see the history of the tramlines here) to get the Klondikers safely over the Whitehorse Rapids.  I had spent two lovely hours walking to Canyon City from Miles Canyon days before.  After jumping from the car, I did find the site. Just down from where we parked, around a corner and along a short, easy trail, the historic site sat beside the sparking Yukon River.  I turned around to walk back to the car, excitedly calling to him that I had found it.  In keeping with my previously documented trail skills, I apparently turned onto a trail that surely was not there on my way down. 

Trail at Miles Canyon

Wandering from trail to trail, I emerged 30 minutes later on that same dirt road, ¼ mile from where Dad was parked.  God bless my dad; after 56 of marriage to my mom, he is as patient as they come and had no criticism as I dropped laughingly into the car. 

Later that evening, Elaine and I decided to drive up the road so she could see Canyon City.  But THIS time, I was prepared.  As we walked down the trail, I DID notice the trails that branched off, and I carefully marked our route with arrows made of sticks so that we could find our way back to the car with no problems.  Elaine loved the site; we read all the informational signs and sat for a time with our feet in the Yukon. 

Elaine with toes in the Yukon

Thanks to the endless daylight of the far north, 7:00 pm felt like 2:00 in the afternoon.  But apparently, the wildlife knew that evening had arrived. 

Before we found even the FIRST carefully constructed arrow, we heard a tiny “yelp” at our feet and a small black bundle hustled into the woods.  WHAT?  Yes – there they were, Mama, Baby One, and Baby Two.  Black bears.  Maybe 20 feet from the trail.  Staring at us.  Huh. 

Every park service employee up here trains tourists for bears.  “Make lots of noise on the trail.”  Check.  We had been laughing and chatting like city girls.  Never get between a bear and her cubs.  Okay – well, we weren’t really between them. But did anyone ever give that lesson to the baby bears?  And then, probably the most important instructions.  “Make yourself look as large as possible.  BACK up slowly. Do NOT RUN.”

Right.  And in a crisis?  Ha.  We failed on that score.  “Bears!” Elaine breathed out.  Her instinctive reach for her camera stopped by my vice-like grip on her wrist. “Nope. We’re going the other way,” I said, whipping us around and heading (yep, backs to the bears) to the Canyon City site, 50 feet down the trail.

“Can we see them from here?  Can I take their picture?  How about a selfie?”  You gotta love Elaine. 

We waited.  We checked back to find the little family still happily munching their berries and blocking our path.  Finally, we gave in.  My lovely markers will surely confuse some hiker who encounters them tomorrow; goodness knows they did us no good.  Rather than bother the bears, we heading in the general direction of our car on a completely different trail.  Good luck and daylight -- okay, and a certain amount of vertical scrambling -- got us back to our car in one piece, sadly without that bear selfie.   And no bears or humans were harmed in the writing of this true adventure.

 

Lost and Found

Inviting me to step off the road or parking lot and into the adventure of new sights and new sounds, to walk alone with my own thoughts or together with like-minded companions, to see that packed dirt, bordered by trees and wildflowers, unwinding before me – I can’t resist a new trail.  

Can't you hear it calling me?

Way back in late May, Dad dropped Melanie and me at a river trail from which (according to the map) we could walk back to our Williams Lake, BC campground.  Wandering happily, the sun beaming down summer hot, we laughed like our long-gone little girl selves as we dipped our feet in a rippling stream.  Our spirits dampened a bit when the trail crossed a messy construction zone, but chatting along our route, we barely noticed the path changing from a double-track bordered by the river and a low hillside to a single track closely hemmed by knapweed and grasses.   Checking Google maps on Mel’s quickly off-powering phone, the trail seemed to be veering a bit to the east of our intended route, but having overlooked the terrain from a vantage point early that morning, I could clearly see our destination some ways ahead of us.  Sadly, neither of us could see the trail that had been at our feet – in fact, behind us, those beautiful waving grasses had nearly hidden every trace of our passage, and showed no path before us.  Not to worry! A certain amount of bushwhacking and a short scramble up a gravel hillside got us safely onto . . . train tracks.  

Sisters at Williams Lake River trail

And that beautiful bridge would lead us right over the river – assuming no trains took precedence over our pedestrian way. As Melanie says, “We didn’t get lost, not one bit,” and we arrived back at the campground more than ready for cocktail hour! (By the way, Williams Lake is one of the towns that was evacuated this summer due to wild fires).

Did you know there are APPS for that???  It’s true! I have discovered a wonderful app – All Trails – that locates trails in my area (rated by difficulty), directs me to the trail heads, and can even track my hike as I go.  Of course, that tracking business takes a cell connection and DATA, and I admit to a miserly attitude toward both.  But as long as I have cell service, the GPS on my phone locates me and tells me where I am, and helps me decide what turns to take to get where I am going and back to my car.  In fact, in Talkeetna, AK, I walked around a beautiful little lake thanks to All Trails and really did not get lost, not one bit.  All Trails also found a beautiful park close to our campground in Anchorage; the dark woods were a mosquito haven, but the trail offered beautiful vistas for only moderate climbs.  



 

THIS is the EASY trail????

When All Trails identified an easy trail up Bodenburg Butte near our campground in Palmer, AK, I excitedly suggested a girls’ outing, and Madeline and Elaine were delighted to accept.  Madeline drove, and although we did zoom past the first turn to Bodenburg Loop Road, it’s a loop, so we just took the next turn, and All Trails accommodatingly directed us to the trail head, clearly marked by a parking lot, a faded sign board, and a little fee box.  Previous hikers who had commented on All Trails warned that the local hiking club opportunely tow the cars of those who did not pay the fee.  Madeline did question, since there were no forms or envelopes, how anyone would ever monitor those payments, but we dutifully stuffed our cash into the rusted slot on the cobweb-covered box before we trudged over to the trail.  “Now, the reviews said there are a lot of STEPS,” so this first bit may be a bit challenging,” I warned.  “We can turn around if it’s too much.”  We looked dubiously at the steep, sandy ascent, thinking some steps would make for an easier climb, but we kept trudging up without encountering those steps.  The rocky, dry trail cut steadily up the bare butte. We stopped often to catch . . . the view . . . and I continued to remind them that we did not have to go to the top.  Then, two women running down the trail assured us that we were almost to the fence and that the trail was quite easy after that, so we trudged on, but we never did find a fence . . . in fact, we never found those steps.  We found rocks over which we scrambled, and we eventually found a breathtaking view of the Matanuska Valley – we could even see the glaciers below us glinting baby blue in the brilliant summer sun. 

We made it to the top!

And then, Madeline declared,  “Well, we need to find another way down because I am not going to go down that sandy, steep hill.”  Those of you who knew my mother know that I had learned at a very young age not to mess with that tone of voice. Luckily, on the way up we had crossed a trail that seemed much more reasonable – In fact, I bet we had somehow missed a turn and had not even been on the main trail -- an easy  mistake on a rocky slope!  So, we took the correct trail down from the top.  And there, we found the steps.  They made much easier work of the descent, and the route back to the trail head was much cooler – the wind blew through the trees along the path, blowing most of the mosquitos off and keeping us relatively cool and comfortable. But I kept wondering where we had missed this lovely branch of the trail, when we would reconnect with the trail we had started on, and what we were going to do about that first steep and sandy slope.  I was still wondering when a shiny, freshly painted sign welcomed us to the Bodenburg Butte trail and reminded us to support trail maintenance by filling out the donation envelope and posting it to the shiny red box attached to the sign. 

“Did you come down the wrong side of the butte?” A man across the street smiled knowingly as we stood at the side of the road trying to reconcile this trail head with our expectations. 

Oh. 

He smiled and didn’t seem at all surprised.  “You can get back where you parked by following this road – it’s about two and a half miles.  You’re not the first ones to come out the wrong side.  Just the first today.”

Oh. 

Carmacks and the Yukon River
from some ridge, but no
trail!

I can’t report that was the last time I got a little bit lost.  I might have hiked the Carmacks Ridge Trail, but I am not sure it was supposed to end at the electrical sub-station overlooking the tiny town. 

And although Madeline, Roger, Dad and I started out to hike the “easy” Brown Trail in Whitehorse, I am pretty sure the intended trail included neither several jaunts up and down the same sandy vertical slope nor a butt slide into a gravel pit.   

Trail behind Robert Service's
cabin in Dawson City

I can, however, report the joy of venturing out most mornings to go where I will, to take as long as I want, and to see whatever I see, and yes, to find my way back with or without a trail laid out before me, my feet slapping the beaten earth in an arhythmical cadence of freedom, peace, and happiness.

 

Perspective

For four hours, we had bounced and shivered across Prince William Sound observing sea lions, whales, puffins, and sea otters along the way.  We had gratefully gulped steaming hot chowder, wished for mittens and winter coats, and generally had a magnificent if fairly overcast day aboard the Lu Lu Belle, most ably (and gregariously) piloted by Captain Fred. 

Captain Fred pilots the Lu Lu Belle

And then, the first icebergs appeared.  Like discards from the world’s biggest ice carving contest, partially formed icy whale tales and swan necks floated beside clear, white, blue, dirty grey, and sometimes shiny black glacier fragments. 

Yep.  Glacial Ice

As the little ship (60 passengers) picked its way through the ice, Columbia Glacier slowly appeared – a low bank of blue and white ice backed by an expanse of snow that faded far into the distant Chugach Mountains.  “I think we can get within a quarter mile or so,” Captain Fred drawled as he bent, spinning the ship’s wheel furiously to force the ship around a truck-sized ice ball he said was “probably from the time of Christ.”  The snowy peaks of the Chugach Mountains rose 270 degrees around us, and the clouds cleared to reveal a crisp blue sky, the only sound the steady rumble of the Lu Lu Belle’s engines and the occasional putt-putt of a sight-seeing helicopter overhead.  

Just a peak of Columbia Glacier
at the base of the center mountain

Captain Fred, stifling expert chatter had narrated every minute (and I do me every minute) of our journey, now spoke only to call out the distance from the glacier.  “We’re still seven miles out,” he said. “Believe it or not, when we’re ¾ mile to the glacier, you won’t be able to see those mountains.  It will be just glacier and sky.”  I had learned on Denali the trick that monotonous color and vastness play on our sense of distance, yet my eyes still told me the huge glacier before us came to an anti-climactic end about three feet above the ocean. 

The immensity of the north offers so many lessons on perspective.  Certainly, waves and waves of mountains stretching out from any Alaskan pass bring self-centered existence down to size.  Even more, the stories of those who live and work here force reconsideration of what we value and how we see the world.

Beautiful Downtown Chicken

Shelly works summers in Chicken, AK (population 7) welcoming RVers traveling the Top of the World Highway, but she winters “in town” (Tok population 1435) where she revels in the flush toilets and reliable electricity most of us take for granted.  

The Top of the World Highway rises 4515 feet --certainly not the highest mountain in either Alaska or Canada, and certainly not the highest point on our route.  But from that dusty road, we can see wave upon wave of mountains, and as we drive from one to the other on this ridge-line road, we certainly seem to be on top of the world.  Although pot holes and washboards make for a bumpy ride, those who have the sense to drive slowly can enjoy the beauty it offers.  Those who drive too fast see a bad road. 

Adding 2" to the cairn at
Top of the World

What about the history-changing discovery of gold that started the Klondike Gold Rush?  Allison, a guide at the Danoja Zho cultural center in Dawson City smilingly explained.  “You know, we recognized the gold was there long before George Carmacks and Skookum Jim ‘discovered’ it.  We called it ‘shiny rocks.’  It’s good for attracting fish into our nets.”  Throughout the Klondike regions, the miles and miles of gravel mark the trail of the dredges that tore up the ground – and the animal habitat on it – for the high annual payout of a half-bucket of gold dust, which only has value because we choose to believe that it does. 

Dredge #4 near Bonanza Creek

Pointing out the buoy that marks the site of the Exxon-Valdez oil spill in 1989, Captain Fred reflects on the clean bay and the steps taken to avoid future spills.  Responding to the threat to wildlife, thousands of workers and volunteers streamed to Valdez to clean up the mess, working tirelessly through four months of spring and summer.  And over the long eight months of winter?  According to Captain Fred, “Nature did her own clean up.”  He encourages his passengers to “Keep your Exxon stock, folks, and keep driving your motor homes.”

The glacier, from 3/4 mile away, really did block out the Chugach Mountains behind it. Suddenly, all we could see was glacier and sky.  Its chiseled blue ice really did rise 600 feet above the little ship.  And that blue ice?  It’s really not blue – that’s just a trick of light wave reflection.   Perspective.

Dad and me.  Still
miles from glacier

Life Long Learners

They say that education is wasted on the young.  As an educator, I must object; “waste” is a pretty strong word.  For each time of our lives, education serves unique purposes.  For my traditional age college students, education is, generally, a means to an end.  We have asked them, over and over, what they want to be when they grow up, and increasingly, we focus their education on the end they have identified, encouraging or requiring them to follow charted pathways to their desired careers, sometimes starting as young as 6^th grade.  And then, we’re surprised when they do not become the curious, renaissance people we envision.  We’re annoyed when a student heading for a computer science degree wonders why he needs to know the 200+ bones in the body or how to write an argumentative essay. 

Oh.  Was that a soapbox I just stepped on?  Sorry. 

For each time of our lives, education serves a unique purpose.  I am blessed, at this time in my life to be traveling with five of the most curious of renaissance people. 

L-R: Madeline, Elaine, Tom, David

As we have driven these many, many miles (1700+ from Seattle!), we have been guided by a unique publication called Mileposts which provides non-stop commentary about the sights along the road, tied to the mile markers we pass.  On our first day out of Bothell, Washington, Dad said to my sister and me, “You will be the navigators,” and then showed us this book, arranged by highway and by mile markers, so that on some trips, the traveler reads the columns top to bottom and on others from bottom to top.  As confusing as this text was at first glance, the more I explored it the more interesting (and amusing) it became.

 It is full of detailed information. At mile 25.2 on the Hyder-Stewart Access Road, we learn that there are multiple turnouts to see Bear Glacier at which “morning light is best for photographing.”  When the RVs approach any point of interest, Mileposts provides meticulous details. For instance, milepost 3.7 coming into Seward directs us to Exit Glacier – “Turn west of Herman Leirer Road (paved 45 mph posted speed limit) . . . and drive 8.4 miles to reach Exit Glacier in Kenai (KEE-ni) Fjords National Park.  Close-up views of Exit Glacier and Resurrection Glacier as well as access to local attractions, make this a worthwhile side trip.”  Milepost not only identifies which fish can be found in which river or stream, it even directs would be fishermen to the appropriate angling methodology – “Silver salmon to 22 lbs., use herring, troll, or cast . . . also bottom fish flounder, halibut to 300 lbs. and cod, jig weighted spoons and large red spinners, year round.”  Of course, one needs sufficient background knowledge to make sense of those instructions.  I read the book as we drive along, wisely choosing not to share the pictures in my mind – use troll?  

Troll for fish?

Cast?  Spoons?  Large Red Spinners?

Mileposts also directs us to museums, parks, and interesting pull-outs where my traveling companions give me living examples of life-long learning.  Before they left their Albuquerque homes, they all read Michener’s Alaska cover to cover; at every stop along the way, they build on the knowledge gained from that read.  Viewing the Gold Rush area maps at Skagway, they excitedly connected obscure points on the trail with the various exploits and misadventures of Michener characters Buck, Missy, and Tom 

David, Elaine, Roger, and Madeline reviewing
 gold rush map in Skagway

who carried a TON (that is a precise measure, not a figure of speech) of supplies up the Chilkoot Pass in search of gold.  Whenever our own travels hit a snag – when a either a tail light or the internet goes out – they laughingly balance our modern “woes” “ At least we’re not climbing Chilkoot Pass!” They visit every museum, enjoying the professionally impressive -- Museum of the North Anchorage, the Morris Thompson Cultural and Visitors Center in Fairbanks, and the Alaska Sea Life Center in Seward – as well as the more folksy – the Seward Community Library & Museum, the Fountainhead Antique Auto Museum, and the George Johnston Museum in Teslin.

Sea Lions in Prince William Sound

My favorite part of each day is “cocktail hour.”  After a day spent apart – sight-seeing, visiting museums,  or traveling from point K to point L (we’ve long ago passed A and B), we gather at one RV or another and over our wine, beer, or lemonade, share the day’s explorations and new information.  These people have read every sign and every label in every museum, and as they discuss the sights they saw and the information they gained, the whole group learns and remembers more.  Seriously, ask these people the names of the First People nations in the areas we have visited. They know! 

Long house and totem of the
 Gitxsan of K'San Village

Talk about totem poles – they know who has them and who does not.  How many kinds of Salmon? What’s the annual rainfall in Seward?  How much snow fall annually on the Harding Ice Field?  How much does a sea lion weigh?   


Yes!  Real Puffins!!

Where do Puffins live? They know! 

Yes, I am seeing Alaska and spending valuable time with my dad, and yes, I am loving it.  AND, I am so enjoying meeting and traveling with these life-long learners.

Up Close and Personal with Denali

As I said, we had a great experience in Denali National Park and Preserve.  It's absolutely beautiful. Getting to visit and pet the park's sled dogs was an added bonus. 

I love petting dogs that are not mine!

Koven -- Almost ready to lead!

And my fellow tourists gave me endless chuckles -- the teenage boy, plagued with juvenile-onset drowsy disease, who slept through the entire bus ride, the over-dressed tourists impatiently waiting for their morning lattés . . .  
But I digress.



The truth is, no matter how wonderful the park experience, Dad and I were disappointed not to have really SEEN the mountain, and we were ready to move on to our next adventure in Talkeetna. 



The artsy signage of Talkeetna

Artists, hikers, tourists, and climbers converge in Talkeetna, 60 miles from Denali at the confluence of the Susitna, Chulitna, and Talkeetna rivers.   Hundreds of Denali climbers started their  trips from the hanger of the famous bush pilot, Don Sheldon, about whom Dad and I have been reading.  Our drive from Denali to Talkeetna, with the sun coming out and the amazingly beautiful Alaska Range out the west windows promised to be a good one.  To our great joy and surprise, we were also greeted with views of THE MOUNTAIN that we had failed to find during our two days in Denali.

Denali peeks out!

 We were entranced.

We chased that mountain as far as we could, pulling in viewpoint after viewpoint just to stare one more time at her unbelievable heights.  She remained shy, it's true, maintaining an air of mystery behind a shifting veil of clouds.

Now THAT is a MOUNTAIN!

But, by gosh, we stalked her the whole drive, earning the final benediction just as we pulled into Talkeetna five minutes ahead of a 24 hour rain storm. 

We couldn't get enough, and so, we planned for a flight-seeing tour, stopping at the kiosk of Sheldon Air and eventually booking a flight for 10:00 am the next day.

Our dreams of Denali seemed doomed, however, as the next day dawned rainy and wet -- and our flight was cancelled. Imagine the thrill, then, when, during my morning walk the NEXT day, my phone rang and Dad said, "Flight's on, get back to the RV!"

Dear reader, what can I say? 
We got into a tiny plane.

  We flew 60 miles across green, glaciated land.

We saw the mountain, up close and personal. 

 

We landed on Ruth Glacier. We walked around in our borrowed snow boots. 

We listened to the silence and to a strangely distant roar.   "What's that sound -- like a river flowing?" I asked our odd, taciturn pilot, Jok.  "That's the glacier," he said.  A river of ice.  Hmm.

We flew around the mountain, saw so many rocky peaks formed by shifting plates and moving ice. 

And mostly, we were silent. Standing on the glacier in our own space, staring, turning, staring some more.  Even in the plane, while Jok rambled on about geology and naming rights, I was so grateful to be the littlest one who got the back seat, and whose headset microphone did not work.  Sitting in the back of that timy plane, with no one to hear me if I chose to speak, I reveled in the peace and in my own braided river of thoughts . . . Even now, I have no words with which to share the impact of that flight. 

I have to borrow some from the Eielson Visitor's Center in Denali National Park:

"I have found that people go to the wilderness for many things, but the most important of these is perspective.  . . . They go to the wilderness for the good of their souls."   Sigrid Olsen.  "We Need Wilderness."National Parks Magazine, January-March 1946.