First up was white water rafting. Before Alaska, I don't remember doing much on a river. Over the past couple years I've enjoyed calm floats and chill kayaking, but I'd never been whitewater rafting before. Naturally, we had to fix that.
Two hours south of us, the Nenana River cuts a canyon through the Alaska Range outside of Denali National Park. I passed the four smallest minions (who didn't make weight parameters) off to a wonderful, long-suffering friend, and Rick and I headed south with the two eldest for a date with Denali Raft Adventures. We started the day off badly with me underestimating the time it would take to make the drive. The trip began with laughing and ridiculous stories and ended with stress and criminal speeding to make our departure time. Luckily, they built in time for such shenanigans, and we even had time to go to the bathroom before sitting down for our hilarious and irreverent orientation by our guides, Eli and Demetrius.
We had originally signed up for an oar raft (the guide steers) because we didn't have the numbers for a paddle raft (at least 5). We wound up getting roped into the paddle rafting, and I'm so glad because it was so much more fun. After reexperiencing birth while squeezing into our wetsuits, we were each given a lifejacket, helmet, and paddle before being herded into the bus to go to the rafts for 2 hours and 11 miles of rivery-goodness.
The Nenana River is a 140-mile-long north-flowing tributary of the Tanana River, and one of the top rivers for white-water rafting in interior Alaska. During our 11 mile run, we hit Class I, II, III, and IV rapids. Paddles ready to dig in to the swells, feet firmly wedged into the neoprene footholds in the bottom of the raft, we bounced and bucked our way over the rapids. I think I found a new love. Leah was not as much of a fan--in her own words, "It was a lot of fun, but it wasn't fun because it was also pretty scary."
We passed under one of the tallest bridges in Alaska. In true Alaskan "do what the hell I want" spirit, some enterprising climbers had installed climbing holds on several of the braces. We had to walk over a recent avalanche area that had turned a class III rapid into a class V, which we couldn't take for insurance purposes. Rick's favorite part came after the last rapid, when the guide announced that we were in the "swimming zone" and told us all to get off the boat for a bit. Eli didn't have a chance to get his oar completely out of the way before Rick flopped backward off the raft. The rest of us followed. It was pretty cool to be carried along on the 30-degree currents. It was less cool to get hefted back on board by my life-jacket and flail around face-down on the boat for a couple minutes while I righted myself, but pride is a small price to pay for a good memory.
I'm still too cheap to pay for pictures. So there aren't any.
We ended the day with a bull moose sighting and some Thai food from a tiny little trailer on the side of the road. The original plan was to eat at Prospector's Pizza, but they were only open for takeout and had a lengthy wait. Strike two, Prospector's. Strike two.
While waiting for our food, we caught a glimpse of a replica of the infamous Into the Wild bus. Background: Twenty-odd years ago a hiker, Christopher McCandless (aka Alexander Supertramp), was seeking true wilderness and walked off into the bush by Healy, Alaska. It was April, and he took minimal supplies in a misguided attempt to live off the land; a local offered him a map and more appropriate winter gear, which McCandless declined. He made his way across the Teklanika River. He survived for about two months, slowly starving to death. He tried to come back across the river, which was now rain-swollen and impassible. McCandless returned to the abandoned bus where he'd been living, and died. He was found some time later. His story was romanticized in the book Into the Wild and the movie of the same name. Every year, multiple tourists try to make the pilgrimage on the Stampede Trail to find the bus. Inevitably, a number of them are ill-prepared for the reality of the Alaskan wild and have to be rescued; some have even died. You probably will not be surprised to hear that most Alaskans have very little good to say about McCandless. After some debate, this year the National Guard airlifted "The Magic Bus" out of the bush in hopes of deterring tourists. Rumor has it that it will ultimately wind up in Fairbanks. We'll see.
To sum up, whitewater rafting was awesome. I'd totally do it again. I might even pay for pictures next time.
Three days later, after filling Bertha bumper to bumper with snacks, bug zappers, and camping gear, we headed out on our Trip of the Summer. The first leg was the Denali highway. This should not be confused with the road through Denali National Park, affectionately known as the Park Road (which itself should not be confused with the Parks Highway that runs from Fairbanks to Anchorage--we're not long on creative names up here). The Denali runs from Cantwell on the Parks Highway to Paxson on the Richardson Highway. It is 135 miles of remote gravel road punctuated with rough pull-offs and the occasional lodge or outhouse.
I wish I had a good reason for wanting to drive it. I don't, really. I just like going places few people go. That's the whole reason I went to Circle last summer and drove the Dalton. There's just something cool about it. The fact that Alaska only has a dozen or so highways in the entire state just makes it easier to tick them off my list. As of writing, I've driven about eight of them.
I digress. We turned east onto the Denali on a gorgeous not-yet-fall day in mid-August. The road was busier than usual because it was hunting season (just like last year on the Steese--I have a great sense of timing for these things, apparently). We drove about sixty miles in and set up camp off the side of the road. The older girls set up the tent, the younger girls picked blueberries, Rick started the fire and I dug the toilet.
I don't have a picture, but I'd like to take a moment to brag about the toilet. I'm not a huge fan of camping, and part of that is having to poop in the woods. I took guidance from a brilliant and much more outdoor-competent Alaskan friend--it started with a 5-gallon bucket that we cut the bottom out of and a snap-on toilet seat. At the campsite, I found a convenient trio of trees upwind of the campsite and dug a narrow hole over which I placed my bucket. Then I strung a tarp between two trees to serve as a fourth privacy wall. Add some biodegradable wipes and presto! We had the ritziest bathroom in the Alaskan bush.
We had spaghetti and marshmallows around the fire; the girls earned their marshmallows by plying me, the marshmallow czar, with blueberries.
It was pretty darn cold that night, with frost crisping the tent. We were up with the gray jays at dawn. After a quick trip to the toilet hole, we broke camp. I'd like to say it's because we're just that kind of adventurous, but frankly, it was because the van was warmer and had donuts.
The one and half lane gravel highway trundled over rivers, through wide valleys slashed with fuschia fireweed, past distant twisting glaciers, and over Maclaren Summit, the second highest highway pass in Alaska after Atigun Pass on the Dalton. We saw a thousand chickadees and ravens, a rabbit, clouds of gnats, a handful of swans and a startled young cow moose.
Just having Christmas. In August. In the middle of nowhere.
This is the Susitna River. There was a note scrawled on the side of the bridge: "Wiley and Drew each had a roast beef sandwich here in 2017."
We finished the Denali, turned south on the Richardson for about an hour, then turned west onto the Glenn Highway for the second part of our trip. We stopped at the grossest outhouses in Alaska (courtesy of hunting season in Glennallen) and made our way to Grand View Campground, just outside of Glacier View, Alaska in the Matanuska Valley. We set up our tent, had some lunch, and the older girls and I headed out to go ziplining. After several years of being airborne and jumping out of planes for real, ziplining was a little tame for Rick so he stayed behind with the smallest.
Huge, but not Denali. This is a view of Mount Drum, a stratovolcano in the Wrangell St. Elias Mountains, visible from Glennallen.
Matanuska Glacier.
Glacier View Adventures boasts the G2, which is purportedly the fastest zipline in the state with speeds possible up to 60 miles an hour. It's over half a mile long and starts on the very same cliff that cars are driven off of every Fourth of July. We took our tour with a nice couple from Wisconsin and the grandkids of the owner. The guides were sarcastic, hilarious, and helpful.
If the girls were nervous to step off the platform, they hid it well. It was a fun hour and change, and a cool experience to sail over a 250 cliff with nothing except a couple nylon straps between you and a long wave goodbye.
Rick and I managed to steal a walk on the little nature trail next to camp; Rick practiced his axe-throwing skills. Because reasons.
The clouds were rolling in as we headed back to camp for dinner at the little cafe. The storm broke in the night. We woke to cold rain drumming on the rainfly. Rick and I shooed the girls into the van and broke camp. By the time we got everything bundled into the van, we were soaked, our fingers numb, and my hair frizzed out. Packing a wet tent wasn't ideal, but the sun wasn't coming out anytime soon and we had places to be.
Smelling like a van of wet dogs, we finished driving the Glenn and took a break in Palmer for lunch at one of the only Arby's in the state. After acquiring our beefy deliciousness, we stopped briefly in Anchorage so Rick could check out Bass Pro and the girls could pee. We only got a little distracted.
Finally, a little poorer but better stocked with fluffy hats, we turned south on the Parks again. Our destination: Homer.
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