About a month after the excitement of the hot springs hike, I decided it was time to go hiking again.  One of my kids’ favorite places is the Savage River down in Denali National Park.  The places you can hike are limited only by your physical ability (and bears), but for those of us who lack imagination there are also two trails.  The first is a roughly 2 mile loop that crosses the river twice.  The second is about four miles long, and takes you up a rock face and over a mountain.  Since we’d done the river loop last year, I wanted to try the alpine trail.  

Now, I know you’re shaking your head, but I was at least *incrementally* smarter than last time.  First off, it's much shorter than the Chena Hot Springs hike.  Second, I was not planning to do the whole trail, especially since we would have the kids with us—I figured we would go halfway and then turn around so we were back at the car before anyone started whining.  We’d ooh and aah at the scenery, feel superior to some of it, and then get burgers before driving home.  Simple.

Despite my earlier performance and full knowledge of our children’s lack of physicality, Rick wanted to hike the whole thing… then turn around and hike back to the car.  Obviously I wasn't the only one with a bad memory.  I privately thought this was a craptastic idea, but I agreed we’d try the trail before making any decisions. (Full disclosure: this was actually not a concession made in good faith, since I totally planned to object to the full hike.  I'd throw the kids under the bus as an excuse and he'd never know the truth.  Foolproof....except for the blog.)

We got up a few days later and headed down to Denali.  It’s only a two hour drive, and the park is beautiful.  If you ever get the chance, go.  It’s definitely worth the trip.  We’ve gone seven or eight times in the last two years and I haven't really been a park person before Alaska.  I particularly recommend going in the spring before the official season opens.  You can drive thirty miles into the park instead of the normal fifteen, the tourists haven’t swarmed yet, and the animals are waking up.  

We were welcomed to the Savage River by a cheeky raven who shamelessly begged for our sandwiches.  Echo obligingly threw hers at his head before we could stop her.  Pretending the raven wasn't laughing at us with his beak full,  we loaded up water and bear spray, strapped on the toddler, and headed up the trail.

A half hour into the hike, I knew I had picked the wrong side of the trail to start on.  I knew this for two reasons—first, because my lungs were rioting and setting fires in my chest, and second, because literally everyone we passed told me so.  It’s apparently much easier to start on the Mountain Vista side, where the trail rises gradually up the mountain, and save the rocky Savage River side for the descent.  Oh well.  Too late now.  There was no way I was turning around to try again on the other side.  I’m nothing if not consistently stubborn about my bad decisions.

The Savage Alpine trail averages about 24” wide, which isn’t too bad on flat land.  When you’re zig-zagging up rocks at a 25% grade behind a preschooler, it’s not nearly wide enough.  My body threatened mutiny for the first mile of thigh-burning, gut-churning switchbacks.  I don’t know how your body works, but mine responds to physical exertion with cramps and an urgent need to use the bathroom—which is kind of an issue when you’re halfway up a rocky mountain with no trees and a view for miles.  Luckily, I was the only one suffering.  The children had lied to me about their abilities and were basically mountain goats, Claudia was strapped to her dad’s back, and Rick…well, Rick’s a Dunedain and walking up mountains doesn’t really phase him. 

Somewhere around here I was looking for Dwarvish doors so I could pass under the mountain.  I'd take my chances with the goblins and the Balrog if it meant I didn't have to keep climbing.

After an hour or so, we finally topped the rocks and the trail evened out.  I felt much better.  My body was no longer in open revolt, and I had won the game of chicken with my bowels.  In any case, like anything that sucks and makes you want to want to quit, it was worth every step.  The screaming wind, the sheer size of the valley and the mountains, the cold air…it’s so damned savage and beautiful.  We saw ground squirrels and fields of fireweed full of fat, sleepy bees.  There were blueberries in the lichen.  We totally ate them.  It was a really great hike.

As I had intended, we did turn around about halfway.  The descent was much easier, but my heart was still in my throat the whole time, courtesy of my daredevil spawn.  The girls thought nothing of scrambling over loose boulders with a hundred-foot drop below them.  Ah, to be young again with no concept of how squishable you are.  My ego aside, Echo was the only injury.  She stumbled on a relatively flat part of the trail (thank goodness) and cut her head and her arm on some rocks, but rallied heroically.

This picture is a lying liar-face.  The trail looks flat because my camera stinks, but this is actually a rather steep set of switchbacks.  Leah and Jane are much further down than they look.

Well, what did we learn, boys and girls?  Not much.  I knew I was out of shape before we got in the car, and it was already pretty apparent that I don't always think things through.   At least nobody died and we made it back to the van without incident.  After an early dinner at a food-shed, we headed home with no further excitement except a possible case of toilet bees (see below).  I really want to try the trail again next summer...except this time we'll start at the proper end and finish the whole thing and I won't spend too much time wheezing on the side of a mountain.  I’m even thinking about working out this winter to prepare.  The hike will definitely happen.  We’ll see if the workouts do.

I regret nothing.

Not much is more Alaskan than a rack of moose antlers bolted to the front of a minivan.

Directly after the toilet bees incident.  Supposedly bees flew out of the rest stop pit-toilet while she was sitting down.  I'm pretty sure they were just flies, mostly because the alternative is too horrible to think about.

The one less traveled by.

A few months ago, Rick and one of our friends conspired to surprise me with a kid-free weekend.  We boxed up the children and shipped them off with Wonder Woman—who has six kids of her own—for three days of camping.  Instead of heading down to Anchorage or going to do something romantic and couple-y, we elected to drive into the wild North and out of cell service before anyone could change their minds about the arrangement.

Thirteen hours from Fairbanks to Deadhorse.  Six hours from Fairbanks to Anchorage.  This state is enormous.

The Dalton Highway is one of the most remote roads in the world.  Running from Livengood to Deadhorse and Prudhoe Bay, it was built as a truckers’ road and parallels the Alaska Pipeline.  It’s thirteen or so hours of remote wilderness where people can and do die.  It’s been on my Alaska bucket list for years.  Researching it, though, I wasn’t sure what to expect—internet advice was pretty evenly split between “it’s not a big deal, just don’t be stupid” and “don’t ever do it because your car will break and bears will eat your face.” I planned for disaster.  We aired up Rick’s spare, packed some extra water, bugspray, shovel, propane heater, and my good jack in his truck, grabbed my battered (I prefer “well-loved”) Milepost and headed up the highway.

The first two hours of the trip we were on the Elliot, a tangle of a highway from Fairbanks to Livengood.  We saw our first moose mom about the same time we left the cell-service area.  Honestly, this was the worst part of the road; pitted asphalt is worse than packed dirt.  

The Dalton doesn’t look like it wants to hurt you.  It’s a pretty unassuming two-lane dirt road when you get on it.  (Less than half of the Dalton is paved.) Of course we stopped for a picture at the sign, taken by a couple of very friendly guys on their own wild-hare road-trip.  We would continue to play tag with these guys up and down the highway.  

After the sign, the next big marker is the Yukon River.  This famous river runs across the state, originating in the Yukon Territory in Canada and then draining into the Bering Sea almost 2,000 miles later.  It is about half a mile across, and you cross it on a bridge that is about as much wood as it is metal.  The river is impressive, and almost as impressive is the bridge itself.  It can flex up to 2 ½ feet to accommodate for temperatures, and the pylons were built by creating water-tight tunnels 25-30 feet below the surface for the workers to work in.

The bridge that crosses the Yukon. I did not expect it to be made of wood, but it went well with the dirt highway on either side of the river.

A floating camp on the Yukon.  Kind of awesome.

The Door Dog.

Looks legit and not terrifying at all.  This is actually not too unusual for rural Alaskan architecture where the emphasis is more on cold and bear proofing and not aesthetics.

A pair of velociravens on the pipeline.  For scale, that pipeline is 4 feet in diameter and about 16 feet off the ground.  The birds are freaking huge.

At the river we stopped at the unimaginatively named Yukon River Camp on the advice of a local friend who used to drive buses up to Prudhoe Bay.  She recommended the burgers, and they did not disappoint.  We got to pet the friendly door-dog and read the story of the infamous Yukon River Camp Bear, who apparently set up shop in the restaurant one winter and had to be forcibly evicted.

After lunch we headed over on a whim to the small cabin run by the Park Service, where we got the skinny on the Dalton by a wonderful, chatty ranger named Sheila.  She gave us up to date road conditions, recommendations about where to stay and which colorful locals to talk to, and annotated the pamphlet she gave us.  She was a little surprised when I asked her to sign it as well. 

We weren’t sure how far we were planning to go; we were just kind of driving on a whim.  As I had mentioned earlier, the road was still an unknown entity.  There are some gut-clenching turns and drops with colorfully descriptive and appropriate names given by the truckers such as “Rollercoaster” and “Oh Shit Corner”—the first is a long, steep drop followed immediately by a long, steep climb, and the latter is a sharp double-blind curve on a hill.  All told, though, the road was much better than I expected. It’s rutted and bumpy, with a couple of car-swallowing potholes, but completely drivable.  Even the trucks, the dangerous 18-wheeler Gods of the North Road, were not a problem.  We pulled to the side whenever we saw one coming in either direction and they graciously slowed as they passed.  As a result of this arrangement, no rocks were flung and no windshields were chipped.

Our next stop was the Arctic Circle.  This was our original destination because of the sign, but we had been warned by friends not to expect too much.  They were right. I was whelmed.  It is literally just a sign, partially covered in stickers, that marks the boundary of the Arctic Circle.  It’s a popular tourist stop for those tourists that make it this far north (only about 1% of people who come to Alaska).  Other than that, its only other appeal is the outhouse.  Of course we stood in line so I could get a picture because that's what you do when you go to the Arctic Circle.  Then we got back in the truck and headed North again, officially in the Arctic.

There is some truly beautiful country up here. Hillsides fuschia with fireweed, teal rivers braiding through the valleys, and vistas for miles.  You are acutely aware of how big the world is—and how small you are.

The pipeline is a constant companion.

We stopped in Coldfoot for gas.  This was another less-than-whelming place, but still satisfying to my quirky soul.  The whole town is built on a single road that loops off the highway.  It is just a place for truckers and campers to get some sleep, some gas, and some expensive food.  The gas wasn’t cheap, either, so if you ever find yourself up this way I suggest bringing your own.  The tiny post office made me smile, though, especially with its sign.

Because Alaskans.

Next we stopped in Wiseman, a small non-town that looks more like a survivalists’ senior center, which apparently throws a big 4^th of July celebration every year.  The hill-people join the citizens of Wiseman and the occasional nosy tourist for a day of barbecue and jug music.  We had been explicitly told to talk to Clutch, 8-Ball, and Jack.  Rick and I thought it would be awesome, especially since it was the 4^th, so we took the three mile detour to explore.  We were welcomed to Wiseman with a sign for the Wiseman Cemetery…and, directly underneath, a box of assorted pans and shoes marked “FREE.” I wish I’d gotten a picture.

The bridge inspired confidence.

We were a day early for the celebrations.  Tents were still being set up and grills wheeled to the grassy commons, but it just felt a little awkward and entitled to roll up and be all “Hi, nice to meet you, now feed us.” We decided to keep driving instead.  Naturally, we ran into someone who had also driven the road that weekend and did stop by on the right day, and had a fabulous time eating and carousing with the citizens.  Maybe we’ll try again next year.

After Wiseman, there was nothing but road, sky, and the occasional roadside outhouse.  It was gorgeous.  I didn’t expect it, but the rest of the road was actually in pretty good condition, both dirt and asphalt.  It was the smoothest part of the trip.

We passed the last spruce tree and made the change from the taiga (the northern boreal forest that circles the Arctic) to the tundra (the treeless lichen-fields that stretch to the Arctic Ocean). We drove through Atigun Pass, which passes through the Brooks Range and is the highest road in Alaska. It was less daunting than I had expected, with the added bonus of seeing an ermine.  Ermine are adorable little murder machines.  They are little weasels about 8 inches long, brown and white in the summer and white with black tips in the winter.  Our little fellow bounced across the road, head and tail sticking straight up, carrying a vole almost as big as he was and looking immensely satisfied with himself.

Once we were through Atigun Pass, the road leveled out and the mountains started to give way to tundra, the flat expanse of lichen and moss that runs all the way to the Arctic Ocean.  At this point we had been in the car for 9 hours, with 4 more to go until Deadhorse.  Now, there isn’t much in Deadhorse except for oil rigs and truckers, and you can’t even get to the ocean without expensive tour tickets bought 24 hours in advance.  Therefore we made the decision to stop at Galbraith Lake, which Sheila had recommended to us.

These look like some variant of fireweed, but I called them the Stranger Things flowers.

Don't be fooled by the rocks.  This moss and lichen depresses about three inches underfoot and springs back up behind you.  It's like walking on a mattress.

Even the plants need coats up here.

A couple miles down the turnoff we passed a primitive airstrip and found the campgrounds, marked solely by a rutted road, a block outhouse, and a faded informational sign about the lake and the two parks, Gates of the Arctic and the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, that flanked the highway.  A small river rushed down to a lake that reflected the sky and the far-away mountains.  We picked a spot to set up our tent and prepped for battle.

I’m only half joking when I say that.

I’ve mentioned before that the mosquitos are sometimes referred to as the state bird of Alaska.  I’ve lived all over this country and I will say this: There are mosquitos, and then there are Alaskan mosquitos…and then there are Arctic mosquitos.  This last group lives in a desolate place where food only comes through seasonally or against good advice.   Ergo, the first whiff of sweat and carbon dioxide and they materialize out of the ether, ready to suck the unfortunate animals into jerky.  We drenched ourselves in DEET and set up the tent as quickly as possible, and then sprayed that down, too.  It kept the bugs off, but only just.  By the time we dragged the sleeping bags over the bugs were testing their luck on the tent.  Luckily (for me), Rick tastes better than I do, so he got the lion’s share of the mosquito cloud.  

We ate dinner in the truck, a package of surprisingly tasty rehydrated chicken alfredo.  After all of my excessive packing, I’d forgotten spoons.  Rick saved the day with a utensil he MacGuyvered out of a can with his knife.  We cleaned up and then wandered for a bit, taking a ton of pictures.  The river wasn’t very big but could be heard everywhere.  It looked so pristine, I was tempted to take a drink.  I ultimately decided against it.  While ancient humans would drink from rivers and lakes all the time, they also, as Rick so eloquently puts it, “spent a lot of time at the sh*tting log.” Battling Giardia or any other critter-gifted intestinal parasite or bacteria is not anywhere on my bucket list.

Anyway, the night was great.  The tundra is pretty comfy because of all the lichen.  Even though I woke up with every rustle of the tent, the night passed uneventfully, with neither bear nor caribou nor murder-weasel to disturb us.

The next day it was drizzly and wet.  As we headed back towards the highway, we saw a pair of rain-dark caribou.  It’s always cool to see animals, and they proved to be just the beginning.  When we came down from Atigun Pass we saw a muskox!  They are usually on the tundra, so the fact that we saw one south of the pass was pretty lucky.  We also saw a silver fox, another moose mom and her calf, multiple blotchy snowshoe hares, velociravens, a trucker who actually waved back, and ground squirrels.  The last were pretty neat because they were living in a hole in the asphalt, the clever little beasts.

The drive home was much the same as the drive up except for one last gift from the highway.  Read anything about the Dalton and you’ll read about flat tires.  We had made it hundreds of miles with no issues, neither chip nor flat nor busted axle, and then about fifty miles from the Dalton/Elliot junction, a tire popped.

What can I say?  Alaska’s a giver. 

Rick fixed the flat while I documented our quintessential Dalton experience and humbly reminded him that I had been the one to make sure we had a complete jack and the spare was aired up.

Some people don’t like driving just to go somewhere; they want a purpose, a destination at the end of the road.  Hours of mountains and rutted roads and millions of trees indistinguishable from each other sounds boring to them.  It’s never just the destination though, is it?  I spent two days with my best friend, making stupid jokes and mapping out the future and just being together in one of the wildest parts of our world.  Boring?  I’d do it again in a heartbeat.