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.

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. 

My Sister, My Friend

When we were kids, my sister and I had bunk beds.  Even after we had separate rooms, I remember often sleeping in the same room, sharing a twin bed or creating a sleeping pad of blankets on the floor. 

Bunsen Bernie, our favorite Kiddle

At one point, I believe we asked for the bunk beds to be re-stacked so we could share a room again.  We would make a tent with blankets hung from the top bunk and play in the secret room created on the bottom bunk.  The wooden ladder to the top bunk made a fabulous platform from which our Liddle Kiddles could launch their afternoon adventures and from which our gonks* could hang from their Velcro- enlaced hands. Melanie and I are 18 months apart, and despite the years and miles that have separated us in our adult lives, she is still my very best friend.

When Mel was a senior, she played Nellie Forbush in our high school’s rendition of South Pacific.  (OMG --  have I mentioned that she SINGS?).  As a sophomore, I played my first and most memorable role in Sentinel High School’s theatre program – high in the back of the theatre on spot light.  As our amazing and terrifying director repeatedly screamed, my job was to “Stick to your sister like GLUE, damnit!” 

Mel was cuter than this

As my knowledge of the hot and whiny tin can they called a spot light grew, it was my pleasure and honor to shine that light on my big sister as she sang, danced, and “washed that man right out of her hair.”

 Bald Eagle doing his own business

For the past weeks, traveling in the luxurious accommodation of Dad’s motorhome, Mel and I have again shared a room and a living space.  Yesterday, Dad and I dropped her at the Fairbanks airport so that she could meet her choir – Sacramento’s fabulous Schola Cantorum – for their tour of Germany.  My funny and talented sister managed to join us for the first leg of the trip AND maintain her real-estate business while she did so.  The technology which allowed her to explore British Columbia and parts of Alaska while she talked to new buyers and sellers, negotiated with fellow realtors, and conferenced with her broker amazed me, but her determination and knowledge impressed me.  Mel’s phone and ipad accompanied us on most outings;  in the early days of our explorations, I would unknowingly interrupt her conversations, not realizing that her phone (on silent), had beeped, rung, or twiddled and that while she “oohed” and “aahed” at the scenery she was also texting her way through a delicate business deal.

Mel negotiates a contract

She addressed sellers’ questions while we watch a bald eagle at the site of former gold rush town of Dyea.   She reviewed the days’ deals with her broker on the harbor at Skagway, and from the outlook of the Tetlin Wildlife Refuge, she caught up on her voice mail after several “no service” hours of travel through Yukon and Alaskan wilderness.  Our little kitchen table became her office where first thing in the morning and for 2-3 hours after we stopped driving for the day, she would type into endless forms, arrange for showings, and talk through negotiations with sellers (some, shall we say, needing more TLC than others). 

But it wasn’t all work.  We cooked and cleaned, hiked and shopped, navigated for Dad, and spotted wildlife.  We toured the amazing sights. Of BC, the Yukon, and Alaska.  

Mel and Dad outside of Hyder, AK

Mel & new friend, Carcross

Sitting outside in the evening, she chatted comfortably with our traveling companions (we did not inherit identical skill sets!), and even made friends with the locals whether at the shops, in the campground, or at the Kluane Mountain Bluegrass Festival.  In fact, if not for her research, we would have missed that great outing entirely! Mel nursed me through my annual bout of bronchitis -- alternately worrying about my cough, administering every possible medication available in small town, one-shelf pharmacies, and adamantly commanding that I “just try not to cough.”  And then, just to test my adherence to that command, she made me laugh  -- wedging herself (with amazing grace) up to her shoulder in the couch cushions, stumbling through the kitchen before she was quite awake, sharing tales of her amazing kids (she has FOUR COLLEGE GRADUATES!), changing clothes in creative and unexpected ways, and just being my big sister. 

I am so glad that Mel arranged to come with us for this part of the journey. I know she will miss us – but probably not my oh-so quiet 5:00 am wakeup routine! 

 

* Gonks are stuffed creatures that our paternal grandmother, Billie Douglas, created for us.  No pictures available!

A Walk in the Woods

“Vacation” evokes varied expectations and intentions.   One person may plan for late mornings and later nights, another for moonlit walks on the beach, another for endless food and drink.  In my case, vacation provides the opportunity for a real treat – early morning walks in the woods -- and I do mean early.  I love the birds that chatter at dawn.  I love the way the rising sun adds sparkle to the leaves and color to the horizon.  I truly love being the first to discover the new day. 

I have always been an early riser, and even in the “real world,” morning walks are a treat I plot out as I fall asleep after a long day’s work.  But on vacation, my mornings are not crowded with classroom preparations, papers to grade, and the daily routines that keep me oddly busy at home.  On vacation, I can pull on my walking shoes and zip out the door without any responsibilities slowing my steps. 

The Kluane Range

Thus, pulling into our site at Haines Junction, Yukon, my little heart went pitter pat to see a 5.5 km river trail leading off from the RV park – with promises of outstanding views of the Kluane Range.  The sun beat hard and hot at 7:00 pm, but as the last notes of the Kluane Mountain Blue Grass Festival (more on that later) carried us back to our RVs at 11:30 pm, the temperature had dropped, and I anticipated a cool morning for the next day’s walk.  Of course, all that sunrise stuff is strictly out – at midnight, the sun was still shining brightly in Haines Junction, and I knew it would rise again about 4:30 am.  I have no problem getting up at 4:30 to catch a sunrise, but 4 ½ hours’ sleep makes for a dozy drive the next day, and I don’t want to miss a single sight of this fantastic scenery.  So I slept until 5:00.

Not surprisingly, greeting me around the first corner of the path was a sign proclaiming “You are in Bear Country.”  Now, this is not a cute slogan intended to lure visitors to the Yukon; it’s true -- There be bears – black, brown, and grizzly.  I can hear y’all gasping -- Walking alone?  In the woods?  At dawn? In BEAR COUNTRY?   I am aware.  I am cautious.  But I am not going to stay inside and miss out on some of my greatest pleasure just because there be bears.  (And don’t get me started on bear spray, please).   When walking in bear country, experts suggest that the walker make noise rather than practicing First Nation stalking techniques.  Snap the twigs under each step, walk and talk, sing a little song.  Well, two opportunistic mosquitoes saved me from any need to invent a noise maker.  I slapped and clapped at them as I entered the misty woods where pines and aspen coexisted in a painter’s palette of greens. 

A sudden rustling of leaves gave me a little warning before the hillside to my right erupted in a cacophony of breaking branches and rolling stones.  I froze as a large body of fur hurtled down the hill heading for a spot about 20 feet in front of me, then ran past me into the woods, doubled back to circle around me, and dashed back into the woods – tail wagging happily and tongue flopping as he effortlessly leapt over brambles and bushes at least four feet high.  I laughed in startled relief, only to find another furred creature – this time quite large and BLACK hurtling directly toward me.  After a moment’s shock, I realized that this too was a dog – but still -- big, black, and headed right for me.  Really, there was nothing for me to do.  I couldn’t get out of its way, and I certainly couldn’t outrun it, so I stood there – to be greeted by another tail wagging “woof” before this one also raced into the woods.  With the dogs crashing through the woods, all concern for inadvertently startling a bear evaporated with the mist on the peaks.  All creatures great and small within a 5 km radius were surely awake and well warned that the woods had visitors.  

Buddy and Crazy One

Now, I know almost nothing about dogs.  My only dog experience was the Pomeranian-Pekinese fluff ball that kept me company while I recovered from hip surgery at age 5.  He raced around our yard like a thing possessed, barked at everything, and nipped our friends when they tried to pet him.  He slept on my casts and licked my hands.  But generally, my adult experiences have taught me that dogs come with humans carrying plastic bags, so I walked on, anticipating that the dogs would gambol back with their owner in tow.  And in fact, they did so gambol – but the only towing involved the black dog and a “stick” around which he barely fit his massive jaws and which extended at least three feet on either side of his head. 

Tail still wagging, he ran full tilt toward me, dropped his tree, and raced back into the woods. 

Buddy with two sticks

He didn't seem to like actual sticks, preferring to retrieve wood fit for log cabin construction or a roaring campfire.  He tried to drag entire downed trees from the underbrush, but lost focus as soon as his friend came racing back.

These hilarious monsters -- I dubbed the bush-vaulting white-ish one “Crazy One” and the black lumberjack “Buddy” --   stayed with me for a full hour as I explored the trail.  They chased every squirrel and bird, dove repeatedly into the Kluane River, and engaged in endless games of “I dare you” and “Bet you can’t catch me.”  They returned to me after each mad dash into the woods, and Buddy marked our passage with an entire bonfire worth of branches.  As the trail wound back to the RV park, Buddy began to wear down and walked at my side for minutes at a time.  Now and then, the top of his damp head would brush my fingers, and when I looked down he would look up – and I swear he smiled.

Adjectives for AWESOME?

To catch up after two extra days in Prince George (motor home is now in tip top working order!), we traveled three days in a row, about 6 hours a day, staying one night each in Smithers, Stewart, and Dease Lake, BC and finally, a two night stop in Teslin, Yukon Territory. We’re still in BC, but we had lunch in ALASKA, crossing the border into Hyder.   If you have not looked at a map yet, note that there is only one road into Hyder – and no road out, so we had to return to BC to continue our drive.  (note:  Lack of cell or internet service in these remote areas means that writing and posting of this blog are not always synchronous.  Bear with me!)

When I left Chicago, I worried that I would miss my beloved spring and summer flower garden, but as the unbelievably huge and prolific lilac bushes of British Columbia gave way to flowering raspberries, fairly slippers, and endless lupine along the road, I realize that our tour of western Canada and Alaska will provide me with an every-changing garden of sensational sights. 

Fairy Slipper

In fact, we’re running low on adjectives for “awesome” as every day has been a blink-and-you-might-miss-it journey.  David’s mastery of big rig driving is as inspiring as the scenery.  We’ve seen eight black bears, one brown bear, one bald eagle, two loons, one coyote, five deer, two foxes, two caribou, three otters, a buzzard, and one man and a bike (with dog). While we admired the otters and the buzzard on various morning walks, the other wildlife sightings required David to slow down, speed up, and point dramatically while negotiating this 42 foot behemoth (plus car in tow) that we call home on mountainous and winding mountain two lane highways.  The man-bike-dog also required David to control said behemoth while we all burst into uproarious laughter as we realized that the moose-bear-caribou (!!!) we were sighting was a much more mundane, but still impressive man riding his bike up a mountain pass while his dog trotted alongside.  Around every hair pin turn, at the crest of every impossibly steep ascent, and on the thank-goodness-we-made it flat at the end of each 8% grade, a glorious new vista awaits.  

The drive from Prince George to Smithers provided magnificent views of the Omineca Mountains, the Lake Country, and the rollicking Fraser River.  Our camp ground in Smithers, aptly named “Glacier View” faced the imposing sight of Evelyn Glacier, and our afternoon walk to Twin Falls revealed Kathlyn Glacier from which the icy grey-green falls cascaded dramatically.  I wanted to dip my toes in the water, but a handful of the stuff left with me with toes that shriveled into my Birkenstocks and refused to let go. 

Fraser River

The next morning brought us crisp blue skies for a quick stop at K’san Haida village, where we walked around the captivating longhouses and totem poles in mystical silence before the visitor’s center had even opened.  But the most jaw-dropping sites were yet to come.  Bear Creek Canyon, complete with grandiose views of snow-capped peaks and waterfalls shooting from rocky roadside cliffs culminated with the icy blue face of majestic Bear Glacier – out of this world!  

Totems and Long Houses at K'san

 

A rainy day drive into Stewart BC/Hyder AK gave us ghostly views of mountain peaks with clouds drifting across their faces.  Southeast Alaska’s annual 92 inches of rain create an unbelievably lush atmosphere – moisture we greatly missed as we drove on to the Yukon down a dusty gravel highway that has coated our cars and RVs in uniforms of sandy grey.

A million years ago – okay, maybe 20 – I came to the inside passage of Alaska on a cruise ship.  The cruise was lovely, and the views of the ocean, whales, dolphins, and all were great.  And, I didn’t get to SEE the country the way we are seeing it now.  This is stupendous!