9/12 – 9/15/20
9-12-20
Sometime in the stir-crazy third month of quarantine, between the first heat wave and the second wave of riots, the idea leapt into my head. I would escape to a place where salmon leapt and mountains soared and men in flannels ate moose steaks for breakfast. I would go to…Alaska!
The pandemic, of course, made everything harder. But I finally managed to find a flight that wasn’t cancelled, contrived to cram two weeks of camping gear into a single straining suitcase, passed an all-important COVID test in the nick of time, and flew from O’Hare on a rainy Saturday afternoon.
The first six hours of the flight to Anchorage were purgatorial. My TV didn’t work, my mask itched, and my in-flight reading (on ancient Greek architecture) was tedious. During the final descent into Anchorage, however, the plane swung low over a swelling sea of mountains and the glittering immensity of Denali, and every annoyance was forgotten.
9-13
I had planned to hang around Anchorage today. But after discovering that a cold front would arrive overnight, ushering in a long period of foul weather, I decided that I had to see Denali before the summit was hidden. So I arranged to get my rental car a day early, hastily assembled my hiking gear, and hit the road. Racing the clouds, I sped 160 miles to Denali State Park, and started at a breathless trot up a trail famous for its views of the mountain.
The trail lived up to the hype. The views really were stunning – so stunning that I scarcely noticed a thousand feet of elevation gain. Golden birches rustled overhead. A silent river rushed through the valley below. Mountains reared right and left, glittering with snow and glacial ice. But the horizon beyond, the whole horizon, was filled with the sky-piercing majesty of Denali.
As I climbed above the tree line, I found myself in a crimson plain of knee-high shrubs. Higher still, and I stood at the head of a deep ravine gilded with birches, the hazy immensity of the mountain above.
For once, the hike back down was a pleasure. A warm breeze played over the tundra. Slow showers of leaves rained on the path. Past the trees and beyond the wind, the mountain shimmered surreally, fading into the twilight.
9-14
Speeding again down the Parks Highway after a morning of errands, I managed to run over a screw, and so sentenced myself to a few hours in the greasy parking lot of a Wasilla garage. When I finally reached the vicinity of Denali National Park, I entered a broad sweep of crimson tundra, punctuated by shivering stands of birches. Occasional rents in the clouds poured sunlight over the scene, kindling the fall colors.
On an impulse, I turned down the old Denali Highway, the gravel road that runs for nearly 150 miles through the rugged heart of the Alaskan interior. Though I only went a few miles, I was treated to awesome vistas of tundra and peak, coppery in raking light.
Making a mental note to return, I made my way into the park. As I drove the 12 miles up the park highway to my campground, I saw that winter had preceded me. A stiff wind was stripping the last leaves from the roadside birches, and fresh snow glittered on the surrounding peaks.
9-15
I woke to find the spear-like spruces around my campsite bending and cracking in the wind. Then, as my mind finished its morning reboot, I remembered: I would be biking in that wind. I had rented a bike the night before, and blithely planned to pedal out to Sable Pass, 27 very hilly miles up the park road. I guessed that the 54-mile roundtrip would take only four or five hours. I guessed wrong.
It was cloudy when I set out, with the ghost of a sun hovering in the east. The wind never stopped, and never stopped being cold. Even worse than the chill were the leaves rattling through the woods and thickets, which sounded unsettlingly like the footfalls of large animals. I was more than a little worried about surprising a grizzly bear or moose – both abundant, and notoriously fearless, in the vicinity of the park road – and since the wind was blowing straight in my face, I was convinced that no critter would hear or smell me until it was too late. So whenever I approached a bend or blind spot, I sang. I began with classic rock standards; by the end of the ride, I was reduced to Christmas carols.
After the first hour or so, my singing became a bit wheezy. The Denali park road consists almost exclusively of hills, often a mile or more long. The last six miles leading up to Sable Pass were a single unremitting leg-murdering 1400-foot climb. The wind was blowing straight down the road, whipping dust into my eyes. Toward the top of the hill, however, the sun emerged. All at once, the tundra flickered russet and golden and pale, and the icy mountains behind exploded into high relief.
Legs and lungs burning, I finally reached the top of the pass. Once I was in a state to appreciate it, I took in a glorious panorama of snowy peaks and glowing tundra. Against this backdrop, I ate lunch (my usual peanut butter sandwich). Then, after a few pictures and some tentative leg stretches, I started back down.
Coasting down that six-mile hill was exhilarating. The rest of the return ride was not. As I labored up hill after hill, my legs grew heavier and heavier. On the final interminable incline, heeding the pleas of my failing quads, I gave up and walked my bike. Then, since a curve was near, I filled the solitude with “Jingle Bells.”