SURRENDER

Alaska in late May is hard to predict, which Christian and I knew before we booked our flights. The trip had come together at the last minute as the best ones do, and it was unclear what conditions we’d find once we left coastal Anchorage and climbed higher into the mountains. We’d considered dozens of more objective-based missions, and ultimately opted for a much less structured road trip around southcentral Alaska. Nine days in the largest American state wouldn’t be nearly enough to see everything we wanted, but we hoped it would work as a preview to help us decide what to come back for next time. I’d lined up a couple of photoshoots to provide some structure and cover costs, but our itinerary would mostly have to reveal itself as we went.

Unable to sleep on the redeye from Denver, I sipped my ginger ale and dropped pins in every direction, aiming to keep things within a few-hour radius of town. Would we be post-holing through feet of snow up in the alpine, or swatting at clouds of mosquitoes along the coast? The beauty of a last-minute plan is that it demands a kind of surrender, and we trusted that the Frontier State would provide. We stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac in Anchorage, captivated already by the prominence of the surrounding peaks, and slung our bags over our shoulders.

WARM WELCOME

The first order of business was to meet up with Brook and Craig from Alaska Overlander, whose kitted-out Tacoma would become our mobile base camp for the entirety of the trip. Craig welcomed us outside and provided a tour of the vehicle, demonstrating the proper way to pack down the dual rooftop tents from iKamper. Craig was a monster of a man at 6’7”, and looked like he could carry the truck on his back. He’d moved to Alaska from New Zealand thirty years prior, visiting once and never leaving. Brook pulled up shortly after in a freshly lifted black LC250, confirming our suspicions that we were in extremely capable hands.

No expense was spared on the truck, which was equipped with everything we needed to be self-sufficient for the next week in the middle of nowhere. It reminded me of my Tacoma back home, with a few more creature comforts to allow for longer stints on the road: dual rooftop tents over the bed and cab, a full kitchen set and refrigerator, a pressurized shower, table and chairs. Bedding was included as well, which proved critical as it meant we could leave bulky camping gear behind and fit everything we needed into a backpack each.

Christian and I had our travel rhythm dialed after years of photo projects around the world, but the prospect of separate camp spaces felt like a rare luxury. I’d been slightly apprehensive about eight straight nights of camping after a recent run of back problems and poor sleep, but those worries faded as soon as we climbed into the truck. We didn’t know where we were headed, but we knew we were going the right way.

NORTHERN EXPOSURE

As we left the city limits, the suburban sprawl quickly gave way to a vast, untamed landscape. We followed the Parks Highway north, passing through small towns and roadside businesses that set the stage for subsistence and survival in the frontier. Signs for Alaska Auto Parts, Alaska Butcher Equipment, Alaska Demolition, North Country Fuel & Bait dotted the roadside, indicators of a culture that was proud but unpretentious, always straight to the point. Our hopes were high for Talkeetna, a town long mythologized by climbers and travel writers alike as the quirky gateway to the rugged Alaska Range, and we pulled into town excited to leave artisanal coffee in the rearview.

A rare cloudless afternoon allowed for crystal-clear views of North America’s tallest peak, whose hulking summit reflected off the Susitna River and scraped the heavens through the windshield. The road into the park was still buried under winter’s leftovers, so we made a vow to return later in summer and headed into town in search of a bite to eat.

Despite its reputation, Talkeetna came off as a caricature of itself—more souvenir stand than soul. A quick walk through town revealed tacky local crafts, shitty cover bands struggling through summer hits of the ‘90s, and squeaky-clean “hippies” more focused on selling tie-dyed t-shirts than living off the grid. Rumors that the mayor was a dog turned out to be true, and somehow still didn’t land with the charm that they should have. Two scoops of ice cream and eighteen dollars later, we decided to skip town for an unmarked turnoff that led to a gravel wash in a glacial river confluence. The riverbed was quiet and the wind cold and clean, and we wandered from the truck until the midnight sun finally dipped behind the distant, snow-capped peaks.

OPEN ROAD

The next morning’s route along the Glenn Highway was a study in contrasts, a journey through a landscape that shifted from dense boreal forest to vast, open plains. Alaska’s dedication to preserving its natural beauty was striking—miles and miles of scenic highway unmarred by billboards or power lines, offering unobstructed views of the surrounding boreal forests and a towering Mount Drum whose gravitational pull lured us in its direction from as far west as Glennallen. Whatever road signs did exist were peppered with BB holes in an almost charming testament to the frontier spirit.

Wildlife sightings were plentiful: bald eagles soared majestically overhead, white heads stark against the deep blue sky. We’d spot them perched atop towering evergreens, on the lookout for movement below. A flash of rust-red fur darting across the road revealed a swift fox, and a tiny ermine scampered into the brush from the shoulder, still partially cloaked in its winter white. Our eyes, however, were constantly peeled for one creature in particular: the grizzly bear. We’d arrived in Alaska under the impression that these apex predators would be as common as mile markers, and while we meticulously scanned every distant hillside and roadside thicket, the elusive grizzly remained just that.

A quick roadside stop resulted in the friendliest restaurant service and worst Thai food we’d ever had, and we left smiling anyway—hearts full if stomachs not. A nearby gas station provided sufficient snacks to hold us over for a few more hours, and we pointed the truck south toward the Wrangell Mountains.

DETOUR

Realizing we were way ahead of schedule, Christian and I scanned the resources available for some inspiration. A few moments spent studying a map spread across the hood would redefine our trip—we decided to adjust our planned itinerary to accommodate an out-and-back detour to McCarthy, a small unincorporated community inside the expansive Wrangell-St. Elias National Park. I’d dropped a pin there on the flight to Anchorage, but had no idea what we were in for.

The road to McCarthy, a notorious 60-mile stretch of gravel, was reputedly a bone-jarring, tire-shredding ordeal. We braced ourselves for the worst, but to our pleasant surprise, it was in shockingly good shape. Perhaps the spring thaw had been kind, or perhaps we’d simply built up a tolerance on the high mountain passes of Colorado. Whatever the reason, the journey was far smoother than anticipated, allowing us to fully soak in the dramatic glacial moraine that revealed itself beneath the sheer cliffs out the passenger window.

About halfway to town, we stopped at an overlook to stretch our legs and struck up a chat with a group of older folks, who we connected with immediately. They turned out to be Gay, Dave, Felicia, and Paul, the entire board of directors for a local environmental nonprofit called WISE (Wrangell-St. Elias Institute for Environmental Education). A couple of them owned a cabin nearby, and they were on a recon mission to survey some migratory seabirds that frequented the area. Half an hour later we had learned about the area’s rich history, particularly the boom-and-bust cycle of the copper mining era that had shaped McCarthy and Kennecott. We thanked them for turning our spirits around, and exchanged contact info so that we could stay in touch when we returned to civilization.

CONTACT ZONE

The weather, as it often does in Alaska, had shifted dramatically. A steady drizzle settled over McCarthy, blanketing our campsite in an eerie, muted light. We huddled under the truck’s awning and waited patiently for the rain to subside, nursing camp mugs of coffee and reviewing our creative brief for the next morning’s photoshoot. We’d be shooting sleek sunglasses and techy outerwear, which should feel right at home against Root Glacier, an enormous icefield whose tongue had receded to five miles above town. The rain proved persistent, but we were hungry enough for a long walk across the footbridge and into McCarthy itself, where we were rewarded with a somewhat-local lager and a delicious hot meal.

Around mid-morning, there was finally a break in the clouds. The rain eased to a whisper and then ceased altogether, revealing a layer of sky we hadn’t seen since a couple days prior. We scrambled to organize our gear, and started up the winding trail toward the glacier. The ascent offered panoramic views of the Kennecott Mine, its weathered red buildings clinging to the hillside, a poignant relic of a bygone era. A ‘contact zone’ existed here where greenstone and limestone met, directing the Ahtna tribe and early prospectors toward copper deposits that would shape the area’s future.

As we navigated the rocky moraine leading to the ice, signs of life were abundant. A porcupine scurried across our path, its prickly armor on full display. There were fresh moose tracks, surprisingly large and distinct in the soft earth, along with scattered droppings—clear evidence of their unseen presence throughout the day. We neared the glacier’s edge and stopped for a chat with Ben and Roy, two local glacier guides who were out exploring on their day off, and they pointed us toward some lower-angle features that would make for a perfect photoshoot backdrop.

ICE FLOW

For the next few hours, we lost ourselves on the glacier. We gridded the playground of ice first together and then alone, Christian taking the time to get his drone in the air while I explored a crystal-clear waterfall that led deep underground. We admired the deep blue moulin, the sharp séracs, and the smooth, sculpted surfaces of the ice flow, unconcerned completely with the plans we had foolishly made for that evening. Being so near to the start of the season, guiding businesses hadn’t gotten going yet and we ended up with the expansive icefield all to ourselves.

The setting was unbelievable—a better fit than we could have imagined for the sleek, futuristic sunglasses and techy outdoor gear we were tasked with showing off. Both of us were completely immersed in the images we were capturing, which turned out to be some of our favorite scenes from the whole trip. I took advantage of a momentary window of blue sky to fire off a satellite text to the folks at Wrangell Mountain Air, hoping to score a couple of seats on the flightseeing mission they had rescheduled from the previous day. Cards full and batteries empty, we shed our spikes and made our way down the valley just in time to catch the shuttle to town.

Our driver, Kate, typically worked at the Kennecott Lodge but was cheerfully filling in for a friend. Her husband was the maintenance man for the whole town, which was well-oiled and efficient—everyone pitching in as necessary to keep the wheels turning. Park rangers, glacier guides, shuttle drivers, hotel staff, and restaurant workers typically arrived in May and stayed until September, working whatever job was needed to get McCarthy through its peak season. We learned that housing was largely employer-provided and operated on a first-come, first-served basis—another sign of the town’s practical, no-nonsense approach to existence.

CONVERGENCE

By this point, we were starving. Options limited, we returned to The Potato, which had beckoned us like a lighthouse in the storm the night before. Miraculously, the food was incredible—my cheesesteak, golden-brown and expertly toasted, cradled a generous mound of thinly sliced, perfectly seasoned tri-tip steak, seared to a tender crispness and packed full of colorful bell peppers and onions. It was, without hyperbole, one of the best sandwiches I had ever had. The door swung open every few minutes, locals and tourists alike lured inside by the savory aroma wafting from behind the bar. The restaurant would quickly become our culinary anchor for the next few days.

Excited to explore the surrounding area some more, we scanned maps and flyers posted on the walls and marked some highlights down in our notepad. Our waitress, Sarah, and a few other locals seemed to know someone named Morgan from Wrangell Mountain Air, and kindly offered to put us in touch about a flightseeing mission before we left town. Odds didn’t look great, as she was apparently gone visiting family for the week, and flights like these typically required a precise weather window and a few days’ notice. We had no cell service anyway, which we quickly realized was a problem as we hadn’t booked ferry tickets for our voyage from Valdez, and likely wouldn’t be able to do so at the last minute.

My satellite service beta program couldn’t get a text out through the thick clouds, so we headed over to the only place in town with working wifi. In a predictable twist, the system had been down for a few days, but the bartender kindly offered her own phone which we used to get a call through to the ferry operator and check in briefly with loved ones who hadn’t heard from us in a couple of days. We stocked up on snacks and provisions for the next day’s hike at the general store, and ended up with a few scoops of huckleberry ice cream to savor on the walk back to camp.

RHYTHM

The footbridge into town had become a familiar, almost ritualistic part of our daily routine. A local entrepreneur had recently built a vehicular bridge a quarter-mile downstream, offering a more convenient, if less romantic way into town by car, truck, or shuttle bus, but the access was gatekept by a cool $600 seasonal key. For us, the half-hour walk between our now established camp and the heart of McCarthy was a refreshing interlude, providing a chance to soak in the scenery and space out the day.

Town itself hummed with a unique energy. You’d see every mode of transport imaginable: people walking, biking, driving cars and trucks, roaring by on motos and ATVs, as well as a scheduled small bush plane touching down every hour or so. Without fail, every passerby offered a wave, a nod, or a short introduction—a shared understanding of the value of community in a place like this. The general store offered more than provisions; it was a town hall and central nervous system. The saloon wasn’t merely a bar; it was a gathering place where business was discussed and changes were made. Every piece of the puzzle was essential, and nothing was redundant.

Expecting the day to be our last in McCarthy, Christian and I spent a few hours wandering the old mine at Kennecott which overlooked the glacier tongue. A satellite text buzzed my phone, confirming the universe was still smiling upon us. Morgan at Wrangell Mountain Air had managed to squeeze us onto a flight, made possible by a last-minute cancellation from a couple who hadn’t found a way into town. We’d have to hang around an additional day, and were told to meet at the footbridge at 8am as long as the weather was cooperating.

WARMTH

By night three everyone in town was a friend, and every cheesesteak an enemy. Muscle memory piloted us back to The Potato, where Sarah promptly delivered the usual without even presenting a menu. We deleted our sandwiches before the overhead speakers made it through The Great Gig In The Sky, and found ourselves wrapped up in a game of Pickle Roulette whose rules and purpose still escape me. It occurred to mid-bite that McCarthy was what Talkeetna thought it was—a vibrant, interdependent community inviting visitors from all backgrounds to play their part in their own Alaskan experience.

For us, it had begun to feel like a Truman Show simulation; we were the main characters and everyone else was playing a role. There was Sarah, the waitress and her mom who poured drinks, and Willow, the blue-haired ice cream girl from the general store who also worked at the flightseeing center. Shuttle driver Kate and her husband were sitting at the bar, as was the guy from Colorado who managed the campsite and was positive Travis Hunter would end up in the Hall of Fame. We chuckled about it and left for the night, packing up our cameras and rain gear so we’d be ready to go in the morning.

I rinsed off my boots and my toothbrush using the shower hose in the truck bed, and had just climbed into my tent when Christian shouted my name from behind camp. I pulled on a pair of jeans and followed him down a barely-discernible deer trail through the forest, which ended abruptly at an overlook facing southeast. There was a spectacular display of alpenglow painted on the peaks in the distance, and the sky was as clear as could be. The midnight sun rarely allowed for stargazing, but on this particular night the entire firmament was ablaze.

FRIENDLY SKIES

At 8am on the dot, an old woman named Charlotte picked us up in a painter’s van and drove us to the airstrip. We met our pilot, Oren, and his sister who was celebrating her birthday, and a friendly couple from Fort Collins who would comprise the rest of the crew. I followed Christian into the backseat and strapped on my headset, eager for a top-down view of a landscape that defied comprehension from the ground. Glacial rivers intertwined as rocky moraines turned vertical, sprinkles of snow turning to pure white in a perfect gradient as we climbed higher in the sky. Deep, dark crevasses would reveal themselves as the spring snow melted, coloring shallower pools an electric blue.

Oren gracefully dropped the left wing and spun the plane around, providing me with an up-close look at a remote airstrip perched atop one of the cliffs on the west side of the valley. He explained that hikers would be dropped here to start the Goat Trail, a rugged backpacking route with a gold rush history that didn’t seem like much of a trail at all, and I made a note to look into it for next time. I’d been in bush planes before, over Iceland’s South Coast and near Glacier National Park in Montana, but the scale here was unrivaled by anything I’d ever seen.

The variety of terrain itself was astounding—colossal peaks covered in snow, an endless labyrinth of glaciers, turquoise lagoons nestled in glacial moraines, and hidden waterfalls cascading down thousand-foot cliffs. Still shrouded in the veil was the pointy tip of Mount Blackburn, looming over America's largest national park at 16,390 feet above sea level. Surely exhausted, my camera flashed an error message and I gave it a rest until we touched back down in McCarthy. A few drops of rain began to fall on the walk back to the truck, rewarding us with a vibrant double rainbow as we crossed the footbridge one last time and set our course for Valdez.

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS

We made quick work of the 60-mile dirt road from town and turned left enthusiastically toward the coast, keeping our eyes peeled for wildlife as the road wound through mountain passes and beside babbling streams. The nose of the truck pointed up as towering, jagged peaks loomed at the roadside, and then down as the white vertical walls melted into rolling hills and boreal forest. Vibrant greens filled our periphery and wildlife sightings became frequent, first a couple moose knee-deep in a swamp quite a ways from the road, and then a mother and her calf, walking calmly across the road in front of us and stopping for a moment to acknowledge our presence before disappearing into the dense undergrowth.

As we pulled into Valdez, the rich marine ecosystem was immediately on display. The harbor was teeming with life—bald eagles were everywhere, emboldened by the presence of fish and unconcerned with the flocks of tourists photographing them from the docks nearby. They sat on lampposts, soared above fishing boats, and dove right over our heads, talons clamped tightly into their squirming, silvery prey. I grabbed my camera from the truck and hung by the docks for a bit, taking in the salty scenery I couldn’t find back home in Colorado, and then met up with Christian for a meal at you guessed it—The Potato. 

The Valdez edition couldn’t quite match the quality we were used to in McCarthy, and the magic was missing either way. It didn’t matter, as the only other place open was a pub down the street called the Fat Mermaid, which we visited for a cold beer to end the night. A man played a few songs on the guitar in the corner of the room, and then sat down and joined us at the table. We chatted about our travels so far, and learned he had moved to Valdez from Honolulu with a week’s notice to meet his 80-year-old brother for the first time. Just before midnight, we made a quick camp at Mineral Creek Road, a gravel track that wound its way into a vast glacial plain just outside of town.

VALDEZ

Snow was falling on Worthington Glacier the next morning, and it was unclear what sort of effort would be required to reach the vantage point we had circled on the map from McCarthy. Miles of postholing through waist-deep snow was the answer, which we decided wasn’t a deal breaker since the whiteout scenery was stunning and the photo opportunities would make the slog worth it. After a few hours of hard-earned hiking, we cut our losses and followed the winding road back toward the coast, eager to get our legs moving wherever possible. The thirty minutes to town were all we needed to kill a party-sized bag of popcorn, Christian scanning local Strava routes while I piloted the truck.

After weighing a list of options, we settled on an out-and-back tour of the verdant hills that stretched out into the fjord. The trail ramped up immediately, transporting us through different ecological zones: moss-draped forests, roaring waterfalls, and swarms of prehistoric mosquitoes that made an audible thump when you swatted them. Much sooner than advertised, the singletrack tightened and then disappeared completely, leaving us fighting through thickets of raspberry thorns and devil’s club until our legs couldn’t take it anymore. Eight miles felt like eighty on the way back to the truck, where we had our first heads-up wildlife encounter in the form of a large black bear lumbering across the fire road in front of us.

We scored a much-needed hot shower at a family-run campsite just outside of town, and then spent the afternoon exploring a glacial lagoon back toward the mountains. The glacier had retreated in recent years and wasn’t easily accessible, but the lagoon was breathtaking and we took the chance to climb around on the icebergs for a while before realizing there were fresh grizzly prints all around us—massive and unmistakable; a very real reminder that the king of the forest was always lurking just out of sight. The bears themselves still evaded us, and we made our way back toward Mineral Creek Road before dinner to set up camp.

MERCY

Christian pulled ingredients from the fridge for a simple camp dinner, which we looked forward to eating alone in the rocky floodplain. We mused reasons why we hadn’t seen any grizzlies, and decided they were probably just scared of Craig. The truck’s rear bumper showed signs of a past run-in, resulting in a quarter-inch puncture we made sure to circle twice on the damage waiver. Camp that night was perfect, and the truck continued to impress. Features and equipment were incredibly well thought out, from the convenient kitchen and water supply to the comfortable sleeping quarters.

Setting up and packing down the iKamper tents was more involved than my Go Fast Camper back home, but the blackout fabric was a real game-changer when the sun never set. We set up the table and chairs outside and sat for hours, soaking in the scenery—easy to forget we were still probably inside city limits, so remote it felt like wilderness. Alaska Overlander had transformed the trip, sparing us motel stays and rigid schedules.

Given our action-packed first half of the trip, it was refreshing to hang at camp for the evening with nothing on the itinerary. I grabbed a couple of the ice cream bars we had stashed in the fridge and we walked along the river, navigating shallow meanders as it split and then converged again. Clouds of giant mosquitoes couldn’t dull the mood as we made our way back to the truck, reflecting on our favorite moments from the past few days along the coast. We repacked our bags before bed, determined to be at the ferry terminal well before our 5:30 am departure, and couldn’t sleep no matter how hard we tried.

SIGHT & SOUND

Our five-hour voyage through Prince William Sound was more than a shortcut home—it was a journey in itself, transforming our out-and-back road trip into a meaningful, aesthetic loop. Onboard, interpretive displays and hand-drawn graphics offered fascinating insights into the local biology and rich marine life that thrived beneath the surface. A quiet solemnity descended upon the deck as we sailed past the infamous site of the 1989 Exxon Valdez oil spill, an early environmental catastrophe and a pivotal event in the history of maritime pollution regulations.

The weather, unfortunately, had taken a turn for the worse, and our planned photoshoot was rendered impossible by the relentless rain. Instead we stayed inside for a bit, spreading the maps we had collected across the cafe table and scouring the surrounding islands in search of the perfect location for a kayak-based camping trip sometime in the future. The topography of Bald Head Chris island stood out immediately as a kayaker’s dream: sheltered coves for calm landings, elevated viewpoints for panoramic vistas, and dense, old-growth forests offering ample protection and a sense of true wilderness.

I headed out onto the deck as the island passed quietly to starboard, visualizing the camping trip as my clothes and camera soaked in the freezing rain, and lost track of time chatting with Jeroen from Amsterdam who was the only other passenger outside. The ferry captain waved at us from the bridge and pointed out a humpback whale breaching directly in front of the boat, and I added a tally to the wildlife counter in my notepad. Prince William Sound was alive, vibrant, and teeming with wonder. Seals and porpoises played in the wake until the waters calmed and we reached our destination in Whittier.

WITCHING HOUR

Emerging on the western side of the famous single-lane train/automotive tunnel, the path to Seward unfolded in front of us. The climate here was noticeably more moderate, and the rolling hills and deciduous forests served as a familiar echo of the lower 48. Our tentative plan for that afternoon was ambitious: 9 miles and 3,500 feet of vertical gain above Harding Icefield, a sprawling glacier in Kenai Fjords National Park. Upon arrival, we quickly realized the early season snow would prevent easy access, and pivoted to a shallower hike through the moraine instead.

Completely drenched after a few hours in the park, we decided to bail on Seward early and pointed the truck back toward Anchorage after a quick refuel. Halfway up the Dalton Highway the week caught up to us, and not even IDLES at full volume could keep our eyes open. After several fruitless attempts to find a quiet campsite, we found ourselves venturing down a remote gravel road up above Girdwood, which would have to suffice.

A strange sign composed of magazine clippings advised against spending the night, but we decided to take our chances as we had reached the witching hour and hadn’t found anything better. Jokes about cult communities became far less funny when we realized the muffled voices we had imagined were real—we were surrounded on four sides by strangers in the forest, who would whoop and holler every few minutes between whispers. We evaluated the dangers, half-joking about being eaten in our sleep, and somehow awoke rejuvenated and fully intact.

MOVEMENT

Birdsong and a gentle breeze welcomed us back to Anchorage the next morning. It was the last day of the month, which meant I was up against the clock to finish my May running challenge, a friendly contest to knock out more miles than my buddies back home. Legs and backs mostly recovered from our battle with devil’s club days before, we planned a 10-mile trail run through Chugach State Park, eager to take advantage of a rare sunny day and knock out some easy miles at sea level. 

The park was vivid and beautiful—a sprawling network of trails winding through dense forests and along tranquil waterways—and undeniably wild. Giant bear tracks, fresh and unmistakable, dotted the muddy paths and kept our senses heightened as we wound our way deeper into no man’s land. Stark yellow warning signs were placed every few hundred yards, emblazoned with images of roaring bears and stern admonitions. Even here, firmly within city limits, we were undoubtedly on the visiting team.

Our planned route dissolved almost instantly as we hit dead end after dead end; trails intertwining and fizzling out into knee-deep marsh every few minutes. Any bear chasing us would have run out of patience, which was comforting as we ended up miles from civilization and completely on our own. Branches brushed against our faces and mud squelched underfoot as the planned 10 miles became a scenic half-marathon—still no grizzlies in sight.

CLOSURE

Craving a proper clean-up post-run, we made a stop at a local fitness club for a hot shower and a quick dip in the pool. A few laps on the water slide with a group of kids later, we headed next door and took down $50 worth of Jersey Mike’s in about fifteen minutes. Realizing we still had one item left on our checklist, we made sure to save time for a quick stop at the Anchorage Zoo on the way to the airport to finally cross the grizzly bear off our list.

They say you save the best for last, and Alaska was no exception. The humbling scale of the landscape felt inseparable from the deep-rooted spirit of community in places like McCarthy, where humanity and wilderness exist in striking harmony. Being there grounded me in something larger—a mix of awe and belonging that reminded me why these adventures keep calling me back.

Relieved that my fiftieth state had provided more opportunity than finality, I scratched ideas in my notepad for a return visit. Whether that meant an airplane-accessed thru-hike in the Wrangell Mountains or kayak camping in Prince William Sound, one thing was for sure: it would start with a phone call to Brook and Craig.

Originally written for Alaska Overlander in June 2025.