Big Alaska

I return now to my "travel blog" to focus on travel-related stories. Ever since moving to Alaska, these stories haven't been as forthcoming, as say, the time we lived in Manchester, when we could hop on a plane to Belgium at a moment's notice for $30. Getting in and out of Alaska is expensive and often a hassle. Living in Haines, it involves a flight on a seaplane (or a ferry) to Juneau, and then another flight to Seattle, sometimes on the milk-run flight which stops in Sitka and Ketchikan. It almost always takes two days to reach a destination in the Lower 48.

But why leave Alaska? It's usually seen as the destination—at least for millions of tourists each year. In 2015, Alaska was still very much new to Chris and I, and we wanted to explore it first before seeking outside locations.

Now, according to "real Alaskans," life in the Southeast, the panhandle, is cushy. The towns, and the city of Juneau, are often seen as extended suburbs of Seattle. Indeed, the Southeast mentality is very similar to that of the West Coast, as many from California, Oregon and Washington have made the journey northward to settle in more natural surroundings. Xtratufs (the ubiquitous brown boots worn by males and females alike—often referred to as "Alaska's Sneaker") are more a fashion statement in the Southeast (a girl I used to work with even wore these boots with her wedding dress when she got married). Xtratufs, Carhartt pants, Patagonia and North Face jackets, slouchy knit hats—it's a hipster scene, no doubt about it. Don't get me wrong, there are conservatives as well, but the prevailing attitude is very West Coast, with a liberal mindset and a love for bluegrass.

So yes, we wanted to see the "Real Alaska" outside of the cushy coastal communities. Spring had already sprung in Haines, bringing blue skies and wildflowers. The weather was so beautiful that we had camping on our mind. We decided to camp our way around the Interior, making the long drive from Haines through Canada. We scheduled seven days for this epic trip.

Day One:

Cramming Buck with camping equipment, and placing Horton in the very back, we took off from downtown Haines. Our first stop occurred just shy of the Canadian border, at the 33 Mile Roadhouse where we ate a breakfast of eggs, hashbrowns and reindeer sausage. The blue sky sang of open road freedom as we crossed the border and ascended towards the Chilkat Pass. Though the weather was warm enough to stand outside without a coat, the landscape didn't sparkle with Spring like it had back on the coast.

The drive to Haines Junction was a familiar journey through glorious wilderness (there's something about the expanse of Dezadeash Lake that makes my heart soar). We had driven this leg a number of times before to Whitehorse. During past rides, we had been seduced by the sign in Haines Junction, pointing an arrow to the Alaska Highway which led to Anchorage and Fairbanks. The seduction came in the suggestion of distance—epicness. From Haines Junction, Fairbanks is about 500 miles. That, my friends, is a long-ass drive.

Veering off our usual route, we headed in the direction of that arrow and entered completely new territory. We were reminded that Spring had not yet sprung in this part of the Yukon, as the landscape was brown and barren. The waters of Kluane Lake were still froze solid. Our first camping stop was scheduled in Tok, just across the Alaskan border. Crap, we thought. It better be warmer in Tok.

Little towns along the way boasted a gold rush past, providing kitschy photo opts, such as a giant gold pan in Burwash Landing. The Quoset hut Catholic Church in Beaver Creek was also worth a stop. With the towns so few and far between in the Yukon, to find such oddities are a welcome distraction from the intimidating wild.

Past Beaver Creek, we entered what looked like a bulldozed area. I was the driver for this leg, and I wondered if we had ventured off the Alcan Highway. There were no construction trucks, no flaggers, no signs. Also, no traffic. We had to be on the right track, because we passed the Canadian border. For miles, we drove in no-man's land between Canada and the U.S., spotting a moose along the way.

It was smooth sailing through the American border. Near Tetlin Junction, we got the first glimpse of "Big Alaska" with a sweeping view of wilderness framed by a far-off mountain range. I was already seeing the openness that separates the Interior from the Inside Passage.

I drove into the junction town of Tok, fatigued by the miles. Officer Powell with his mustache was the first to greet me to Tok. He pulled me over for speeding, which I felt was slightly unfair. I mean, we had been driving through wilderness for hundreds of miles. Not only were we used to going fast speeds, but we wanted to get to our accommodation for the night. I'm pretty sure we weren't the first to get pulled over by Officer Powell in this speed trap into Tok—but oh well. I probably seemed nonplussed by the ticket, which I paid on the spot. When he asked if I had any questions, and I'm like "Yeah, where can we buy groceries?" I was honestly more concerned about settling down for the night than being busted for speeding (but thanks to Officer Powell, I've got that damn ticket on my record).

Tourist season obviously hadn't started yet in this part of Alaska. We were pretty much alone in the campground. It was Horton's first time camping. He seemed a bit confused as we bedded down, but he soon curled up in the corner of the tent, tucking nose to tail.

Day Two:

The next morning, we made the decision to carry on to Fairbanks (Tok is one of the points on the great Alaskan highway triangle, with Anchorage and Fairbanks being the other points). We met very little traffic and I couldn't help but think how thick with RVs this route would be in peak tourist season. We had lucked out in a way, as we had the roads all to ourselves.

At Delta Junction, we ran into more kitsch with large mosquito statues, a giant coldest temperature gauge (-72 F for the coldest recorded temp), and a sign boasting the end of the Alaska Highway, giving the distances of different cities from that point.

Our camping spot for the night was at North Pole, a town just outside of Fairbanks. We were told by the campground host that temps were going to get down in the 30s that night, so we'd better bundle up. We hadn't prepared for such cold weather, even in a place called North Pole. It was May, for Christ's sake!

While living in Haines, entering civilization always brought me a certain thrill. Even for Chris, who was living in Juneau, the novelty of chain stores and restaurants created a little twiddle in his heart. We ate at a Wendy's in North Pole and luxuriated in the differentness of the mundanity.

Of course we had to visit the Santa Claus House—Kitsch Central, complete with large Santa statue and real reindeer. I can only imagine what a zoo that place must be in the peak tourist season, with tourists vying for photo ops. Like with everything else, we had the place to ourselves, though we were a bit overwhelmed by the amount of kitsch crammed into such a small space.

For a completely different experience, we traveled into Fairbanks and walked around the campus of UAF. I had just decided to go back to school to pursue a degree in Environmental Science, so anything university-related stirred the juices in my brain. Indeed, UAF has a fantastic campus with interesting architecture, not to mention an ideal location on a hill, overlooking the city. Though the view of Fairbanks was impressive, the city itself lacked any real sights to visit. We went back to our campground and shivered through the night. This plan to camp through the interior was proving to be a dumb idea.

Day Three:

From Fairbanks we took Highway 3, otherwise known as the George Parks Highway, south. Before reaching Denali, we came to the town of Healy, a place that holds significance to Chris and myself. Chris McCandless still lives in Healy, in the replica bus that sits in the parking lot of a restaurant. This isn't the real "Magic Bus" or Bus 142 that he lived in for several months before he met his fate, but it is the bus used in the film "Into the Wild." It's a free attraction, and more of a shrine to McCandless, with pages from his diary framed throughout. I couldn't help but get choked up to see some of his words written out, and of course those haunting last photos of himself. Chris and I both posed in front of the bus, replicating that infamous last photo with him smiling.

I'm not going to go into the whole Christopher McCandless discussion, about why some people celebrate him, and some (especially some Alaskans) despise him. He was a complex character, and I suppose I like that most about him. After all these years (he died in 1992), he still has the world's attention. I guess that gives him legendary status—the stuff of myths.

Originally we had planned to camp in Denali, but after spending a freezing night in North Pole, and hearing that snow was in the forecast for the Denali region, the decision to get a room for the night was an easy one. There was a place right outside the park which allowed dogs, so we settled in early for the night, foregoing a restaurant meal for ramen noodles in bed.

Day Four:

So Denali—the big one. The "Real Alaska" experience. Felt a bit of a letdown, to be honest. It could be because the weather was not optimal for viewing majestic mountains. With a low ceiling, there wasn't a chance we would see McKinley (still McKinley at the time---it was changed to Denali later in 2015). We also found out that the peak wasn't even visible, unless you paid some big bucks to take a bus miles out into the park, and even then, a view wasn't guaranteed. We also found that Denali isn't a dog-friendly park because of the wildlife. That meant no hiking along trails with our furry friend. There was one trail around the visitor center we could take him on with his leash, but after following it for awhile, we realized that this is not the Denali experience was had envisioned. We drove down the road, to the end of the line for private vehicles, and hiked a bit and saw some caribou, but all in all, we didn't stay in the park for long.

A bit dejected, we ate lunch in a greasy spoon diner in Cantwell, a town that reeks of loneliness (at least it did under a cold, bleak sky). Just outside of the town, we came across an oddity—a giant, multi-layered igloo. I thought it was another kitschy attraction, but as I walked up to the entrance, I noticed the graffiti and rundown appearance of it. There was something creepy, almost haunted about this abandoned hotel in the middle of nowhere.

I slept as Chris drove. At some point, I felt him slow the car down and pull into a parking lot. "Hey," he said. "Look." When I opened my eyes, I saw that the sun had broken through the clouds. I also saw the highest peak in all of North America. "Is that really Denali?" I asked. The sign in the parking lot confirmed that it was. I had thought the peak to be elusive, but here it was in all its glory under a blazing blue sky.

We let Horton out and took a walk around. Finally we got our moment; injected with sunlight, we experienced the "Real Alaska."

The arrow-straight road to Talkeetna, our next camping stop, was graced by Denali's silhouette. We had heard that Talkeetna was quirky, but we didn't know that it served as the jumping off point for Denali expeditions, with climbers from all over the world congregating there. The town buzzed with activity.

We set up camp and then explored the town, which boasted an old-time grocery store. We first stocked up on canned goods and hot dogs, and then moseyed on over to the liquor store and grabbed some booze. We had a party at our campsite. Yeah, not much of a party, but we were going crazy on campfire smoke and the hippy vibe from the painted hippy rocks in our campsite. It was in the campground that I realized why mosquitoes are reported as legendary in Alaska. Sure there are mosquitoes in the Southeast (I lived in a place called Mosquito Lake, for Christ's sake), but they are nothing like mozzies in the Interior. These buggers were actually biting through my jeans with mouthpieces like straws. They eventually drove us into our tent where we slept off the booze.

Day Five:

Onward to Anchorage. We passed through Sarah Palin territory. I wasn't impressed with the environs of Anchorage. We didn't even make it to Anchorage. We stopped to eat in a fast-food restaurant (can't remember which one—they all seem the same after awhile), and then, dulled by traffic and strip malls, decided over burgers that we would not go on to Anchorage, but head back into the wild, aiming for Tok.

On Highway 1, following the Matanuska River, we came across some epic sights. The most epic was the Matanuska Glacier, a valley glacier that runs for 26 miles. Never had I seen a glacier that ran so flat that it looked like a river. The suddenness of it around a corner was enough to shake me out of my road lethargy. Most of Highway 1, or the Glenn Highway, runs through a valley, so there are a lot of twists and winds. There's also a lot of traffic, at least compared to other Alaskan highways. I couldn't wait to get to our camping site for the night, ideally somewhere around Glennallen.

We hit a fork in the road: south, the highway led to Valdez (location of the infamous Valdez oil spill), and northeast, to Tok and the Canadian border. Although we would have loved to visit some of the coastal towns, the miles wore on us and we concentrated on making it as far as possible towards Canada, for the Yukon was the longest stretch of our road trip.

The immensity of Wrangell-St. Elias National Park pulled at my attention as we skirted its edge. This area is the largest National Park in the U.S., covering about 13 million acres. Within its borders lie some of the tallest mountains in America (Mt. St. Elias is the second highest after Denali), the largest glaciers in North America, and also volcanoes—some active. It is the least explored park in America and isn't tourist-friendly. There's a road to McCarthy, the largest town within the park, but its gravel. I like the sense that this area truly is wild, with only a few settlers living off the land. My intrigue with this area has only increased after reading "Pilgrim's Wilderness" by Tom Kizzia, a true story of Papa Pilgrim, a religious fanatic who settled his large family in the Kennicott Valley within the park. Not only did he isolate his family, but he abused them, both mentally, physically, and for one of his daughters, sexually. The story is quite engaging. Though "Pilgrim's Wilderness" gives a sense of isolation in the wild, it makes me long for a place away from society. Living off the land is tough; I don't know if I could make it, but to be surrounded by nature with no one around sounds pretty awesome. As long as I had books to read, I think I would be okay without human interaction, at least for a month or so (Papa Pilgrim kept his children illiterate, and only read the Bible to them—no thanks to that).

We found a campground near Gakona that had nice open sites along a river. The weather was clear and on the warmer side, so it was a comfortable night of sleep. The only real drawback to camping, besides the cooler weather, was the smell coming from our air mattress. Our kitty, Vladimir, had apparently peed on it and the smell pervaded, even in the car. So even though Vlad stayed behind, he was still with us (and still is to this day, thanks to all the things he peed on in the closet).

Day Six and Seven:

The next day was pretty straight forward: drive, drive, drive. One can hardly complain about driving in Alaska, though—the scenery never gets old. I can't recall anything significant happening along this stretch. It seems like on most of our road trips, we're fatigued by the end and things start to lose their epicness.

The weather was too cold to camp, so we rented a cabin somewhere in the Yukon. We were told that a brown bear frequented the area, so we were on the lookout. Chris and I walked Horton down a long strip of grass that ran behind the cabins. We were told that this was a landing strip for planes. It was a great place to exercise Horton, to have him running up and down. Good for us too, to get us moving after so many hours in a car.

The next day we set off on the final leg home to Haines. The drive between Haines Junction and Haines never fails to impress. That stretch is the most inspiring scenery on earth, in my humble opinion. Epicness, even at the end of our trip.

We spotted a coyote near the Chilkat Pass, and then stopped at one last piece of kitsch—a rundown shack near Mosquito Lake, with a sign reading "Honeymoon Hotel" nailed to the top. We had driven by it countless times before, but seen as how we were officially on vacation, and roadside kitsch was more or less the theme of this roadtrip, we stopped and took a picture of ourselves sitting there. Tacky, yes, but absolutely necessary.

We were back in Spring, with wildflowers and greenery. We were also back in a tightly-packed landscape with drama on a smaller acreage scale. Sure, the Southeast may seem cushy, but it's my kind of cushy. You don't have to go far for something spectacular, whether that be glaciers, wildlife, a mountain summit, a private cove. What the Southeast lacks is roads, and that's something I long for. You can never venture far. In Big Alaska, you can drive forever if you want to, doing the giant triangular loop, or venturing off into remote communities. There's even a highway that follows the pipeline to the Arctic Ocean. You never know—maybe we'll follow that someday!