Days 18-24: F-you, Alaska!

“Fuuuuck you!” I screamed out from the cold, rainy, muddy, bear-infested trail on the way to the Harding Icefield in Kenai Fjords National Park in Seward, Alaska.

I kept screaming, tears running down my face, whacking the berry bushes with my hiking poles . . .

“Fuck you, Alaska! Fuck you, rain! Fuck you, Universe! Fuck you, bears! And fuck me!”

In hindsight, I could have seen this meltdown coming.

So let’s rewind.

Leaving Whitehorse on Monday August 15, I felt great. I wasn’t even dreading making a longer drive than I’d originally planned since I’d decided to stay an extra nite in Whitehorse and skip camping a couple hours further down the road.

The views along the infamous AlCan (Alaska-Canada Highway 1) were beautiful all the way up through Destruction Bay, Canada.

After getting gas at Destruction Bay, I got back on the AlCan, expecting more of the same.

Then . . . CACHUNK! Pothole.

Cachunk, cachunk, cachunk . . . more potholes.

Suddenly the AlCan had turned into a war zone with the road riddled—and I do mean riddled—with not just potholes, but craters.

We’re talking missing chunks of pavement that were probably 6-10-inches deep and at least 1-2-feet wide.

The speed limit was 55 mph (and even 65 once I got into Alaska); but, I had slowed to 35-40 mph trying to dodge potholes for fear of blowing a tire or breaking an axle or the trailer popping off the hitch again!

And this continued for 3.5 hours—until about 20 miles outside of Tok, Alaska.

The jarring ride was freaking Winnie out, who climbed from the backseat into the front seat twice. Mind you, she has a seatbelt in the back . . . but, as mommy was trying to dodge craters in the road, Winnie started panicking. She stretched her seat belt, climbed over the console, and on top of my Canadian Tire trunk organizer of food that I had in the front seat. She was a nervous wreck and there was nothing I could do about it, except to find a spot to pull over and coax her into the back.

When we crossed the border into Alaska, it wasn’t just raining . . . it was like the sky had fallen and shrouded us in clouds and water. At first it was kind of nice . . . at first.

We had yet another uneventful border crossing, with the agent waving me on after looking at my passport. He also warned me that the U.S. side of the AlCan wasn’t any better and that the potholes would continue for another 100 miles or so.

He was right.

We finally reached the small town of Tok about an hour after the border, with our teeth still chattering from the bumpy ride. I made a quick stop at the liquor store right away and picked up some Denali brewery beer.

I’d reserved a site at the Tok RV Village and Campgrounds, which was fantastic! The host was friendly, the sites clean and quiet, and the restrooms and showers immaculate. We made a nice dinner, had a beer, and decompressed from our stressful drive.

I woke up the next day filled with excitement for the 5.5-hour scenic drive to Anchorage.

Well . . . let me speed this up for you. Since leaving for Anchorage on August 16, we’ve seen nothing but rain and clouds in Alaska, to the point where I haven’t actually seen Alaska.

Let me rephrase . . . it wasn’t just clouds. It was like a blanket of white cotton had been strewn across every single mountain. Sometimes the cotton was a little thinner and I could make out some of the mountains . . . other times, I was left to imagining that there were awesome mountains out there.

It reminded me of when I went to Maine last year to Acadia National Park—I place I dreamed of going for year. Yet, I didn’t actually see Acadia because the thick fog and clouds thoroughly obscured the coast and cliffs . . . basically anything more than 20 feet in front of me.

I was staying three days in Anchorage and had three days of awesome activities planned out—from hiking to SUP boarding to biking along the coastal trail.

I didn’t do any of it!

Not a damn thing.

It wasn’t just raining . . . it was a full-on downpour for most of the time.

And the clouds weren’t just misty, wispy clouds sweeping across the mountains . . . they fully blanketed the top half to top third of the mountains that surround the city.

I’ve had people tell me that Anchorage and Alaska makes them feel so small. I have yet to feel small . . . I feel lost among the clouds.

I may have been ok with hiking in a light rain, but what’s the point when all I’d basically be hiking or biking in a cloud whiteout, rather than seeing epic, sweeping Alaska views. To me, that wasn’t worth the wet trudging through slick, wet mud and trails.

The first nite, I made my way downtown to order takeout—which took an hour—from the 49th State Brewery. Awesome vegan burger and good beer, but the place was packed with folks from cruise ships.

The highlight of the second day was finding a fabulous dog shop called AK Bark on the way back from the vet, where I needed to get a renewed health certificate for Winnie just in case the Canada and US border agents decide they actually want to check her paperwork at some point! Seriously, the AK Bark shop has a huge assortment of dog coats, gear, and natural treats. I scored Winnie a badass new winter coat. (Tip: you can order from them online too).

And the highlight of the third day was heading to the Alaska Native Heritage Center just down the road from the AirBNB. This is a must-see if you’re ever in Anchorage. I had a wonderfully informative tour of different Native villages that had existed in Alaska, watched a powerfully moving Native dance and song performance, and learned so many fascinating facts. Like how the Russians tried to insult the Northern Indigenous Tribes by calling them Eskimos, which meant “raw meat eaters.” (I never knew that’s where “Eskimo” came from). I also learned that the Kodiak tribe has multiple words just for the word “rain” and that one of the tribes represented in the dance performance had been banned, not surprisingly, from speaking their Native language for decades. So most of their traditional songs and dances had been lost through the generations. They’ve spent the last several years writing new songs to honor their heritage and traditions, and teaching new generations the story-telling dances.

(Side note: I also found two 5-leaf clovers and a 4-leaf clover within the span of about a minute while walking around the various Native villages).

In addition, I learned a lesser-known fact about Anchorage itself (and about Alaska in general): they are obsessed with their coffee to a degree that puts other coffee-centric areas like the PNW and New York to shame. And Alaskans aren’t just obsessed with coffee . . . they’re obsessed with adorable, colorful, and creative drive-through coffee huts.

The brutal Alaska weather can make getting out of your car for coffee a bit of an inconvenience. So, Alaska—and especially Anchorage—is infused with these tiny coffee huts. In fact, Anchorage may have as many as 170 coffee huts! And the coffee is fantastic! Sure, you can drive through a national chain for your coffee . . . but, I believe that the coffee from these small coffee huts is much better, gives you a cool local feel, and just makes you smile at how freaking cute these little huts are! (It also makes me want to open a coffee hut in Colorado).

Other than those few things, Anchorage was a bust. Sure, I was bummed; but, part of me also feels like I can easily fly back to Anchorage at some point and that this won’t be the last time that I drive to Alaska . . . .

So, on to Seward down the breathtakingly gorgeous Seward Highway . . . one of the most scenic drives in North America.

Or so I’ve read.

I can’t really tell you how gorgeous it is because once again, I couldn’t see squat! I could vaguely make out some of the mountains that plunge into the waters along the highway. But the vast majority of the vistas and jagged mountaintops eluded me behind the thick blanket of clouds and rain.

Nonetheless, I felt optimistic as we drove into Seward. This small coastal fishing village has a funky, sleepy vibe to it. Winnie and I walked around the marine park, took in some of the shops, and grabbed dinner and delicious beer at the Seward Brewing Company (thank god for breweries with vegan burgers!) before heading to the AirBNB. I didn’t seem to mind the rain quite as much because it was well-suited for the vibe of Seward.

Winnie getting good use out of her raincoat in Alaska.

Back at the house, I got packed up for my exciting sea kayak and boat tour I planned for Saturday. The pouring rain persisted, but barring any massive storm, the tour was scheduled to go.

Barring a massive storm . . . famous last words.

At 6:45 a.m., just as I was walking out the door to drive to the kayak shop, I got a call saying that there indeed was a massive storm brewing in the Gulf of Alaska.

Ok, no big deal . . . they can book me on another trip tomorrow . . . barring some other massive storm that would nix that trip too.

So, I switched up my plans and headed off to hike to the Harding Icefield today instead. It’s an 8.2-mile hike with about 3,000-feet in elevation gain . . . totally doable for a hearty Colorado girl like me. On the way up you have magnificent views of the Exit Glacier, which sadly is retreating at stunning levels. When you drive into Kenai Fjords National Park, you see signs where the the Exit Glacier originally started, dating back to the late 1800’s. Needless to say, the terminus of the Glacier is far away from where it was over a hundred years ago. It’s even retreated a least a football field or more from where it was in 2010, just 12 years ago. Thanks, climate change.

The Exit Glacier today versus 2010.

The Harding Icefield is at the head of several glaciers, including the Exit Glacier, and itself is over 700 square miles. When I told my kayak guide on the phone that I was going to do this hike in lieu of the kayak trip today, she said that the Harding Icefield is “other wordly.”

I’ll take her word for it, because I didn’t make it there.

And why?

Fucking bears.

Well . . . no, let’s be real.

Fucking fear.

It’s abundantly clear that Alaska is bear country (both black and grizzly, although down here in Seward, it’s black bears). Alaska is also moose and caribous country and “wild animal country” in general.

I’m used to that . . . we have plenty of black bears, moose, and mountain lions in Colorado.

But I came prepared with my can of bear spray and bear bell (to make noise so as not to startle a bear). I also had all of my 10 Essentials (again, I’m a good Colorado hiker), including good rain gear. I was prepared . . . more prepared than most people would be. So off I went . . . in the rain . . . bear can in one hand, with my hiking poles, jingling my damn bear bell.

Maybe it was the chalkboard at the nature center that listed bear sightings from yesterday . . .

maybe it was all the signs warning about bears in the area . . .

maybe it was because I was in an area where I’d never been before . . . alone . . . all by myself . . .

maybe it was because it was 8:30 a.m. and there were only three other cars in the parking lot and no other humans that I could see on the trail . . .

whatever is was, I was on high bear alert from the moment I stepped onto the trail.

The trail was lined with dense bushes, including berry bushes that bears love to eat.

It also had lots of turns and switchbacks . . . great for surprising a bear around any corner.

So, I kept jingling my stupid bell (which by the way, sucked because it wasn’t very loud and kept getting muffled by the stupid little mesh bag that it came in, which you can’t detach from the bell) while singing and talking to myself like I was a nutjob . . . all to keep from surprising a bear.

I didn’t feel at ease.

I wasn’t enjoying my hike.

I was all up in my head about what to do if I saw a bear.

At about two miles in, I came to a spot with an open view of the Exit Glacier and I could see the Harding Icefield at the top, which you can’t actually see in the photo below because by the time I pulled my camera out, the clouds had thickened.

I felt invigorated . . . more confident. And I’d been passed by some dude who was hiking really fast, so I felt better knowing that there was at least one other person on the trail. At last, I relaxed and felt comfortable hiking the remaining 2.5 miles to the top.

Five minutes later, I saw two guys coming down.

“Hey, there’s a bear up there around the corner. He’s just sitting there in the grass eating. He knows we’re there and we just talked to him as we passed.”

Umm . . . what?

“Thanks,” I said . . . and kept going, a bit rattled, furiously shaking my stupid bell.

I pulled the orange protective tab off of my bear spray so that it’d be ready to go.

But as I walked, my heart started racing . . . along with my mind.

My mind: “Where the fuck is this bear? Is it on the trail? Is it off in the grass? Did those guys piss it off by walking past it? Is there more than one?”

My mouth: “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Then, I stopped . . . unable to pick up my feet and move forward.

My mind: “You’re an idiot for being out here alone. What are you going to do if this bear is sitting on the trail up here? You may think you know what to do, but do you really? If you get attacked by a bear, who will take care of Winnie? She’s back at the AirBNB all by herself. How fucking stupid are you being out here by yourself?”

And then . . . the tears.

My mouth: “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

My mind: “Who the hell cares about a stupid field of ice? Why am I risking getting mauled by a bear just to see some stupid piece of ice? You are an idiot . . . turn around.”

So, in a tear-filled hissy fit . . . I turned around.

Jingling my god-damned bell like I was having a seizure.

And then I was pissed.

My mind: “What is wrong with you? You’re going to miss this amazing opportunity just because there may be a bear up head? You chicken shit. But this is what you get . . . this is what you get for being a ‘strong independent woman.’ You get to do all of this shit by yourself all the time. You get to be out here, on your own, risking getting attacked by a bear or a person, and then screwing yourself out of seeing epic shit because you’re too scared and you . . . are . . . by . . . yourself.”

This is what I get for being alone.

Alone.

I am all alone.

And I am so freaking tired of being alone . . . on my own . . .

tired of always having to do shit on my own.

Tired of setting out on a 7-week road trip across Canada and Alaska on my own.

Tired of hiking on my own.

Tired of always doing everything on my own.

And then . . . the meltdown.

My own personal Cheryl Strayed/Reese Witherspoon moment from the book/movie, Wild:

“Fuuuuuck you!”

“Fuck you, Alaska! Fuck you, rain! Fuck you, Universe! Fuck you, bears! And fuck me!”

The ugly cry was in full swing . . .

my hiking poles flailing at the berry bushes . . .

stupid bear bell jingling.

And there I was . . . on the muddy trail . . . soaked by rain . . . in the bottom part of Alaska . . . screaming into the thick blanket of clouds.

Whatever bear may have been up ahead surely got the hell out of there . . . far from the crazy lady on the trail.

I started making my way back down the trail . . . crying . . . pissed off . . . mad at myself and mad at my fear.

And to be clear: this wasn’t some survivalist fear. I wasn’t shaking in my boots, quivering with fear.

I can’t really discern whether this was, what I call, “true fear”—some intuition about what may have happened if I’d continued down the trail—or whether it was “fake fear”—all up in my head.

Whether I actually and intuitively knew that I wasn’t safe, or whether I’d gotten all up in my head, I can’t really know right now in hindsight.

All I know is that I was stuck between feeling like I was an idiot for being out there alone, and feeling like an idiot for turning back.

Either way . . . an idiot.

As I made may way back down the trail, I started seeing more people heading up.

For a moment, I thought, “why not just follow these folks up. Let them spook a bear first!”

But by then, the inspiration to see this “other worldly” icefield had passed. I just didn’t give a shit anymore.

And then, tons of people started coming up the trail.

And one by one, they started pissing me off.

Normally, I like to talk to folks on the trail . . . be a nice, friendly hiker.

But not in this moment.

“How much further to the top,” asked one hiker.

My mind: “You should carry a fucking map and a GPS so you know that, dumbass.”

My mouth: “I didn’t go to the top.”

Another hiker: “Are there are bears up there?”

My mind: “Yes there are fucking bears up there. Do you know where you are, you moron?”

My mouth: “Yes. I was told there’s one.”

Another hiker: “You’re actually carrying your bear spray in your hand. Do you think we need it?”

My mind: “You need to just go back to your car because clearly you’re a dipshit.”

My mouth: “Yes.”

One by one, as I encountered hikers who were clearly ill-prepared or not prepared at all (some didn’t even have backpacks or any gear whatsoever), I became more and more enraged.

Here I was, way more prepared than any of these people to encounter a bear or anything else Mother Nature threw at me, and yet I was the one turning around.

My mind: “You’re a worthless chicken shit.”

At some point I had to squat down to climb down some rocks using my hands . . .

but in my pissed off, ugly crying hissy fit, I forgot that I’d removed the safety tab from my bear spray.

So, as I used my hands to balance myself on the rocks, I accidentally sprayed the rocks, my shoe, and may pant leg with bear spray.

My mind: “You’re also a fucking moron.”

One minute later when I went to itch my eye, I also realized that bear spray had gotten on my glove. So now I had a nice little stinging sensation in my left eye.

Moron.

I tried to use the mouthpiece on my hydration bladder to wash my eye out, but I couldn’t get the water to squeeze out. So, I just kept going . . . it wasn’t that bad, just a mild stinging.

Five minutes later when I went to take a drink of water, I realized that the bear spray from my glove got on the mouthpiece when I was trying to squeeze out the water. Now my lips and tongue were stinging/burning/going numb.

Moron.

By the time I got back to the car, I was utterly deflated. I ripped off my rain pants and gloves and hopped in the car. I was soaked. I’m not sure if there was so much rain that it actually soaked through my rain gear, or if I’d gotten that sweaty.

But I was cold, hungry, pissed, and disappointed.

Then I realized that my fingers were burning . . . badly. Like I’d grabbed something hot.

I must have gotten bear spray all over my hands when I ripped off my gloves and rain pants.

Moron.

Back at the house, it took my fingers about an hour and several cold-water rinses before they stopped burning. I took a hot shower, ate some lunch, and laid on the couch, trying to process this day . . .

my meltdown . . .

my disappointment over my Alaska experience thus far.

And to be honest: I don’t know what to make of it quite yet.

All I know is that I haven’t yet found the elusive “featherbed” mentioned in the Terence McKenna quote that my friend “E” mentioned the other day.

The beauty of that metaphor has so far escaped me in Alaska.

Instead, today, I felt like I was in the abyss.

I’ve said that “[f]ear is needy and ruthless because she actually is your greatest teacher.”

But I don’t know if today’s meltdown truly was fear . . . or it was something else. I don’t know—yet—what I’m supposed to learn from this experience.

When my kayak guide called later to confirm my rescheduled trip for the next day—barring some massive storm—I told her that I didn’t make it to the “other worldly” Harding Icefield today. I told her how there was apparently a bear on the trail and that I didn’t feel safe out there all by my self.

She said that as a single woman who has done a lot of backcountry hiking and camping herself, she thought that I made the right choice.

That gave me some solace.

Maybe there’s nothing to learn from this experience.

Maybe there’s more to be revealed.

I got a good nite’s sleep and woke up (a little late) Sunday morning with a raging sinus headache. Probably from all of the damn pressure with the crazy weather systems. I also felt pretty nauseous.

But I was determined to rally for my kayak tour . . . although I did debate whether it was a good idea given how I felt.

But I ate some breakfast, drank some tea, took some Aleve, and left at 6:45 a.m.

When I arrived at the kayak place to check in, I told the guide that I’d been rescheduled from yesterday. She looked at me with the deep sense of pity . . . and I knew it.

“I’m so sorry. I was just about to call you. But we’ve had to cancel today because of the weather. So we’ll have to refund you.”

“Barring a massive storm” . . . famous last words.

So Seward, like Anchorage, has been a bust. And here I sit at the cozy AirBNB, writing to you, nursing my headache.

The abyss . . . with no featherbed in sight.

I don’t know yet what to learn from my less-than-stellar experience in Alaska so far.

For now, all I know is that I’m here with Winnie instead of lining the stomach of bear.

I also know that I missed out on seeing a supposedly epic piece of “other wordly” ice.

And I further know that the only thing more dismal than this persistent Alaskan rain and cloud cover is my mood right now.

I was reminded of the older man, Jake, whom I met on my first nite of this journey at Flaming Gorge Park in Utah. He said to me, “Do you know the difference between and adventure and an ordeal? Attitude.”

Yeah, my attitude isn’t the best right now. But I’m trying to embrace the downtime . . . rest. Cook some food for the next several days as I drive to Denali and Fairbanks. And play with my camera so that I can hopefully figure it out and get some awesome shots of the Northern Lights in Fairbanks . . . barring some massive storm that would prevent me from seeing them.

So today, there’s no Trail Mix . . .

some days that’s just how it is.

Some days you spray yourself with bear spray.

Some days you get all up in your head.

Some days, you lose your shit in the middle of trail.

Some days a massive storm rolls in.

Some days, you just have to scream “fuck you” to the universe, the world . . . and to yourself.

In the meantime, this seems like a good opportunity to introduce you to my teacher dashboard on Insight Timer! I’ve recorded several meditations and talks and will keep uploading more throughout the year.

And you could do me a tremendous favor by listening and leaving a review or rating. An average rating of 4.6 will allow me to post more full-blown training courses and do live sessions on Insight Timer1

If you’re new to meditation, I recommend starting with Mindfulness Talk and Meditation for Connecting to Your Anchor or just the mediation itself (without the talk). You’ll also find meditations for Working with Your Inner Critic, Self-Compassion (Talk and Meditation or just meditation), RAIN practice, and others. Enjoy!

I’ll be back in a few days after Denali . . . where hopefully I’ll finally be able to see Alaska!

Pre-meltdown . . .