Days 25-27: The Denali Connection . . .

If there’s one thing that’s emerging from my time on the road, it’s the theme of connection.

Back in 2008 or 2009, when I was living in northern Virginia, I was flying from Reagan National Airport to California to visit my best friend. While I was hanging out at the gate, I noticed a guy sitting on the floor, propped up against a pole, reading a magazine.

We ended up sitting next to each other on the plane. I was reading a running or triathlon magazine, and we struck up a conversation about running. Turns out he was from NOVA (Northern Virginia for you non-DC folks) and flying out to Alaska where he was living during the summer. We chatted the entire flight about all things running and outdoors, and realized that I actually worked with his sister at the law firm where I was working at the time.

Contrary to the airplane scene in Fight Club, it turns out that “Ron” (whose name I’ve changed for anonymity), wasn’t just a “single serving friend” that I chatted up once out of courtesy on the plane and then never saw again.

Clearly the Universe wanted our paths to cross, because long story short, Ron ended up becoming a dear friend. We always got together for dinner when he was back in Virginia, I met his girlfriends and his mom, we went trail running together . . . .

we developed a lifelong connection that started twelve years ago on an airplane flight. . .

and I never could have dreamed that this connection eventually would tie me to Denali National Park.

A few years ago, Ron married a woman whom I’ll call “A.” I’d love to reveal more about what “A” does and how she and Ron met; but, I want to respect her privacy, and given the small communities in which she and Ron run, anything more would give her away. And I’ll call her “A” because honestly, I can’t think of name other than her real name that effectively captures what a tremendously badass, gorgeous, loving person she is. Any other name just wouldn’t serve her well.

I met “A” a couple of summers ago when she and Ron came through Colorado on their way back to Alaska.

“A” should have her own reality show where she can be a role model for other women. She can change a tire in 12 minutes flat, change her own oil, and put a new roof on a cabin, all while embodying a gentleness, love, and calm, with a beautiful smile . . . .and dropping a well-placed “F-bomb” (a woman after my own heart).

I tend to think that I’m sort of a badass and can do a lot of shit on my own. But compared to “A,” I look like a high-maintenance princess.

I don’t believe that I’ve ever known a more well-matched couple than Ron and “A.”

Sometime in the last year or two, Ron and “A” bought a beautiful piece of property just outside Denali National Park . . .

which is where the next leg of my 50 in 50 for 50 journey led me.

I left rain-soaked Seward on Monday. The drive up the Seward Highway was a bit more scenic because at least the thick clouds had ascended back up into the sky instead of settling on the ground. So I could see some of the mountains that plunge into the ocean all along the coast.

The drive up the Parks Highway to Ron and “A’s” property outside of Denali was still blanketed with clouds, but beautiful nonetheless. I’d hoped to sneak a peak of The Great One - Mount Denali - on the way, but wasn’t able to because of the cloud cover. Still, the dramatic mountains of the Alaska Range were a bit more visible. Their jagged peaks reminded me of something you’d see down in the San Juans of Colorado or in the Swiss Alps.

“A” had suggested that we grab dinner that night from a Jamaican place along the Parks Highway. Now, I know . . . you may be saying “a Jamaican restaurant in Alaska?”

Yep . . . I was reluctant at first too. I told “A” I’d grab takeout on the way to her place.

So I phoned in my order to Jam Jam’s Spot in Cantwell and picked it up 15 minutes before they closed.

And let me tell you . . . it . . . was . . . amazing! I got a tofu Bahn Mi sandwich that had out-of-this world flavor. Apparently the owner’s mother is from Jamaica, so this was some authentic Jamaican cuisine. If you’re ever near Cantwell, Jam Jam’s Spot is a must-stop.

Winnie and I got to Ron and “A’s” property a little after 8:00 p.m. Ron wasn’t going to be there because he was off in another land for seasonal work. So “A” greeted us with warm, welcoming hugs and showed us around the property.

Their 3.5 acres is a dream. There’s a pre-existing cabin where Ron and A live when they spend their summers in Alaska. To get to the cabin from the driveway, you walk 350 feet along the most impeccably manicured black pebble trail, which Ron and “A” built themselves by clearing away the dense tundra groundcover.

The cabin doesn’t have running water or electricity and, honestly, you don’t even care. It’s adorable, cozy, and provides everything they would need. They’ve built a stunning deck on the front that’s almost as big as the cabin, where they have built-in garden beds for veggies and flowers.

But best of all . . . they built the most adorable outhouse I’ve ever seen! Seriously, this couple is so damned handy that they should both probably have a reality show. The outhouse, with its amazing compost toilet, is painted with a beachy blue and has a sign that says “Life’s a beach.” There are screens on the side to keep out bugs and a clear roof for light. And the toilet seat is made of styrofoam - a brilliant idea to keep your bum from freezing!

I mean it when I say that I actually looked forward to going to the bathroom . . . it was such a pleasant experience! When was the last time you got excited about visiting an outhouse, let alone a bathroom?

There’s a beautiful trail through the squishy tundra that takes you along the stream that abuts their property and provides the boundary between their property and Denali National Park. Yep . . . Ron and “A” have property that directly abuts the National Park. with views of two big mountains, the names of which escape me.

Ron and “A” also just framed up a shower house that is larger than most tiny houses and will be fabulous once they finish it.

Their grand vision is to build a new cabin over the next 5 to 10 years . . . by themselves. All while working full-time in Alaska during the summer and spending the winters doing work elsewhere.

Talk about a commitment . . . and vision . . . and patience. Ron and “A” are committed to this land and their vision for the long haul. That’s not to say that they’ll live there forever . . . but they’ve found a piece of land that speaks to them . . . that feels like home . . .

a piece of land to which they feel a connection . . .

It’s a connection that I felt while I was there.

Winnie and I parked our camper in the driveway to sleep at nite. In the mornings, after “A” left for work, Winnie and I would head into the cabin to enjoy the warmth of the wood stove, where Winnie was more willing to eat her breakfast. Winnie and I would walk the trail along the stream, with Winnie sniffing to her heart’s desire, while I looked for amazing new life (like mushrooms) that I may have missed on the last walk around the trail. Then I’d make my morning pilgrimage to the fabulous outhouse.

This piece of land felt like a home away from home. Maybe it was because it was where my friends lived. Or the hospitality that “A” showed us. Or the peace and quiet. Or the simple nature of it. Or that fantastic freaking outhouse. Whatever it was, it softened the disappointment I’d felt thus far in my Alaska travels.

The next day, Winnie and I ventured into Denali National Park with no real plans other than just to drive the road into the park and see what we could see.

The road through Denali National Park is 92 miles long; however, you are only allowed to drive your personal vehicle up through mile 15. Beyond that, you can take one of two types of shuttle buses to go up to mile 43. From that point, the road is closed due to a landslide. I’d thought of taking the shuttle bus that first day, but didn’t feel like rushing that morning to make my reservation. So Winnie and I drove the first 15 miles on our own.

At one point, right before the Mountain Vista Trail, I caught a glimpse of Denali itself at a pullout along the road.

Important sidenote here: if you’re not aware, there’s interesting history behind the name “Denali.” Prior to 1897, nine different Native groups used different names for the mountain. According to the National Park Service:

No fewer than nine Native groups, from time immemorial, have used unique names for the mountain. There are five Athabaskan languages surrounding the park, each with its own oral place name. According to University of Alaska linguist James Kari, the groups to the north and west of the mountain (and Alaska Range) use words that translate to “the tall one.” The Athabaskan languages to the south of the mountain use words that mean “mountain-big.” The name “Denali” stems from “deenaalee,” which is from the Koyukon language traditionally spoken on the north side.

But, in 1897, a gold prospector named William Dickey, started referring to the mountain as Mount McKinley, to honor his favorite president. You can read more of the history of the name changes of Denali in the National Park Service’s account; but, long story short . . . a white name erased Native language to honor another white man. I know . . . what a shocker. Then, the popular American (predominantly white) culture started using that name (especially after said-president was assassinated), despite the fact that the dead president had no connection to Alaska or the mountain. And it only took over 120 years to restore the Athabascan name to the mountain (and to the park). In 2015, President Obama and the Secretary of the Interior, Sally Jewel, returned the name “Denali” to the mountain and the national park.

Whether you call it Denali, “the great one,” or “the tall one,” it’s a big fucking mountain! Standing at 20,310 feet (originally it was 20,340, but turns out they measured wrong), it’s the tallest mountain in North America and, thus, is one of the Seven Summits - the highest peaks on each of the seven continents.

On average, it takes 17-18 days to summit Mount Denali, and another couple of days to descend. Of course, that all depends on the weather, which can stall you for several days. Temperatures can drop below -40 degrees with winds whipping through at 100 mph. Also, to help acclimate to the altitude, a lot of climbers opt for a “double carry” strategy, which means that you haul your gear up (maybe even on a sled) to a higher elevation, descend back down to a lower elevation to camp for the nite, and then ascend back up again the next day and repeat the process.

Sounds like a shitshow, right?

Sounds like something I’ll likely want to do in the next ten years. In fact, “climb Mount Denali” is on my “list” for my 60th year.

But, for now . . . I just wanted a great photo opportunity.

The beautiful Denali is very shy about fully peaking out from behind the clouds. There’s a north peak and the taller south peak (the actual summit), and at least one of them usually eludes photographers. But for the lucky few who can see both peaks to capture this behemoth mountain, it makes for a stunning shot.

So when I saw what looked like a part of Denali emerging from the behind the thick clouds, I cooled my heels at the pullout along the road for awhile . . .

waiting . . . hoping . . . that she would reveal herself in all her glory.

As the clouds continued to morph to reveal the north peak, I expected Denali to take my breath away. But from the park road, Denali is still over 80 miles away. So there was no breathless moment for me as I stood and watched various faces of Denali emerge through the clouds. It seems hard to appreciate her fullness from that far away. She doesn’t smack you in the face like Mount Rainier does. Mount Rainier all but grabs you by the collar and says “look at me, bitches!” But not Denali. Instead, Denali - with its gaping distance between it and the park road - is more subtle . . . more flirty and alluring . . . like she’s whispering “come, come a little closer.” And then, once you’re closer, she’ll slap you in the face . . . or so I imagine.

I patiently waited for about an hour for the south peak and more of the mountain to reveal itself. But I finally gave up because the afternoon light wasn’t good anyway and more clouds were building.

The north peak of Denali. The best I could do on that day.

I got a peek of the peak . . . enough to spark a desire to see Denali more up close and personal. Enough to create that connection to The Great One . . . a connection that I am sure will continue to build and foster over the next decade.

So . . . as with the rest of my Alaska experience, I resigned myself to saying “I’ll be back for more.”

After that, I did a short hike around Horseshoe Lake early in the evening, hoping to maybe catch a glimpse of a moose. The turquoise waters of Horseshoe Lake made me think of Ta Ch ‘ila Lake in Canada, and it was a tranquil walk along the beautifully manicured trail. But no moose. In fact, no wildlife for me at all that day.

Horseshoe Lake in Denali National Park

That night, “A” and I went out for dinner and drinks at Panorama Pizza along the Parks Highway. Once again, the food blew my mind. Hands down, the best pizza I’ve ever had. A homemade crust with vegan cheese, homegrown microgreens, basil, and tomatoes. I wanted to just shove my whole my face in it and inhale it. Who would have thought that a vegan could find such amazing food in the interior part of Alaska where bears outnumber people!

My second day in Denali I went for a lovely and exhilarating hike up to Mount Healy. Autumn is already in full-swing in this part of Alaska, so the aspen trees are dotting the mountains with golden yellow, and red plants and berries are blanketing the ground.

As I started my hike, I was determined not to have a repeat of the Harding Ice Field hike. I left the stupid bear bell (which a friend of mine told me has been shown by research to do exactly diddly squat in scaring off a bear) in the car and opted instead for crazy white-lady singing at the top of my lungs as I trekked along.

Why is that when you need to sing a song to say - oh, stay alive - that you can’t remember the lyrics to any song (including the song Stayin’ Alive, by the BeeGees)? I sang some songs that my mom made up for me when I was little; songs I’ve made up for Winnie; You Are My Sunshine; and The Gambler from Kenny Rogers - because those were the only lyrics I could remember.

But then I remembered the song, There’s a Hole in the Bucket. If you’ve never heard this song, trust me when I say that this song actually may make getting eaten by a bear seem like a better alternative. My mom used to sing this song to my brother and me when we were little. It’s a long, monotonous song that - technically - doesn’t have an ending, because when you get to what you think is the end, it’s actually the beginning of the song again. It’s like some juvenile version of a Coen brothers movie. It starts out with this woman, Eliza, asking her dipshit husband, Henry, to fetch her some water. Henry, who seems to have the intelligence and wherewithal of toe fungus, can’t seem to figure out how to do that. The entire song goes something like this:

Eliza: “Well, fetch me some water, dear Henry, dear Henry. Well, fetch me some water, dear Henry, some water.”

Henry: “With what shall I fetch it, dear Eliza, dear Eliza? With what shall I fetch it, dear Eliza with what?”

Eliza: “With a bucket, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry. With a bucket, dear Henry, dear Henry a bucket."

But there’s a hole in the god-damned bucket and stupid-ass Henry can’t figure out how to fix it . . . there’s a stick, but it’s too long, and he doesn’t know how to cut it; and then there’s an axe, but it’s too dull, and he doesn’t know how to sharpen it, so he needs a stone; but the stone is too dry, so he needs water and doesn’t know how to fetch it . . . and it all circles back to this fucking bucket with a hole in it!

That song is enough to make a bear or moose want to run far, far away . . . .

I sang it loud and proud as I wandered down the trail.

And about the time that I got to the “end” of the song, I came around a curve in the trail, looked up, and about 50 to 70 yards ahead was a big brown creature.

Now, I don’t see very well. I have 50-year-old eyes, with a bunch of floaters, and contacts that move and shift every time I blink because I have an astigmatism that makes the shape of my eyeballs really wonky and uneven.

So, when I saw this brown creature and something kind of moving at its hind end, I thought, “oh, it’s a horse.”

And then a smaller version of the big brown creature moved out from behind it and I quickly realized it was a mama moose and her baby.

If there’s one place you do not want to be on a trail, it’s anywhere near any kind of wild mama “anything” and her baby . . . especially a mama moose. Mama moose don’t play around.

So I backed up slowly, speaking loudly and firmly. I could have run (it’s ok to run from moose. Never, ever run from a bear . . . they just think you’re playing a fun game of “catch me if you can.”), but there was a pretty good distance between us and she was more concerned with sniffing and eating than with me.

I gave her space, kept speaking loudly, and patiently waited for her and the baby to move off the trail, far into the bushes. I then continued on the trail, slowly and loudly, singing the fucking Hole in the Bucket song.

I met some folks further up the trail who said that they saw the mama moose and baby too. They said “oh, she moved off the trail for you? We got tired of waiting and we just scooted around her.”

Remember from my F-You, Alaska post, how I said my mind thinks one thing (usually something shitty and judgmental) and my mouth says another thing (usually to try to be polite)? Well, this time it was:

My mind: “You’re a fucking moron. She could have killed you and honestly, I’m surprised she didn’t. These are her woods - not yours. You don’t ‘scoot around her’ . . . you wait or turn-around. People should have to take a mandatory hiking class before being allowed to wander off into the woods.”

My mouth: “Well, I wouldn’t recommend that in the future because mama moose can get pretty cranky.”

Anyway, after 2.7 miles and 1,700 feet of elevation gain, I made it to the overlook, which technically isn’t the top of Mount Healy; but, it’s the end of the Park Service’s maintained trail. There’s a social trail, i.e., non-sanctioned trail, that goes to the actual top of the mountain. I sat on a big rock at the overlook, taking in the sweeping views of mountains and clouds, hoping again for a peek of Denali herself, but no luck.

Let me just pause here for another sidenote: I learned that there are only 40 miles of actual Park Service-maintained trails in all of the 7,408 square miles of Denali National Park, for very good reasons that I won’t get into. The official trails in Denali are gorgeous and fabulously maintained. There was a trail crew out working on the path I was hiking. They were putting in a new wooden platform that looked very labor intensive. The amount of work that the folks on trails crews do is flabbergasting. It’s laborious, back-breaking, fun, and necessary work - all so that regular folks can enjoy a hike through the woods without completely wreaking havoc on these precious places. So please - next time you see a trail crew worker, thank them. Or just send gratitude out into the Universe next time you’re on a trail that someone spent hours, days, or weeks to blaze. Don’t make jokes or sexist comments to female trail worker (which yes, happens). Don’t mock them or be impatient with them. And for heaven’s sake, don’t decide to “cut” the switchbacks to avoid a few more steps, or go your own way off the trail, or follow other “social” trails that folks have made off of the sanctioned trails.

Stepping down off the soapbox now . . .

After the hike, I took one of the tours down the road past mile 15 to mile 43. I saw two grizzly bears and several caribou, which was pretty amazing to see these gorgeous creatures in their natural habitats.

And let me pause here again, back on my soapbox: For the love of god, when there’s a grizzly bear less than 50 yards from the road, do not stop your car in the middle of a narrow 2-lane park road so that you can get out and go up to the edge of the road to get a better picture of this fabulous creature munching on berries.

This time, my mind and my mouth synced up: “What . . . in . . . the ever-loving hell, is wrong with those people? They are way too close to that bear.”

So that was the extent of my wildlife viewing in Denali National Park.

As for the rest of the tour and the road up to mile 43: breathtaking and stunning. Honestly, words failed me once again like when I was on the Sea to Sky Highway heading out of Vancouver. From the road, we barely scratch the surface of what this National Park has to offer. The mountains are so diverse in their geology that it’s hard to capture in words. From gray, snow-capped peaks in the distance, to spruce and aspen-covered mountains, to the Polychrome mountains that form critical Dahl sheep habitat . . . the vast array of mountain features that Denali displays simply boggles my mind.

My fabulous day at Denali was followed by another night at the best pizza place in the world with “A.”

One thing struck me during dinner both nights: this part of Alaska is like many other smaller communities that I’ve had the privilege of traveling to over the years. From what I heard people talk about, they had left other lives in bigger cities to live more simply here in small town Alaska. As the bartender at the pizza place put it, “I realized here that I don’t need as much as I thought I did.”

That’s not to say that life in Alaska is “simple.” In many places like this, life is logistically harder when you have to drive an hour or more for groceries; go fill up on water once or twice a week because you don’t have running water; have to chop wood because you have no other heat (not “get to” chop wood because you like a nice fire); or, build a bitchin’ composting outhouse because you don’t have indoor plumbing.

But what I took from what the bartender said, is that places like this will make you not only re-evaluate what’s a “luxury” and what’s a “necessity,” but also cultivate a deeper appreciation for both.

Living in a place like this invites you to disconnect from the bullshit that doesn’t really matter, and connect to the simplicity of life that actually matters.

Connection . . . to the land around you and how it can support you and your life.

Connection to a deeper understanding of yourself.

And connection to other people - differences aside.

We talked about this “connection to other people” at dinner with “A,” the bartender, and other locals at the bar. They talked about how everyone here helps each other out. No one gives a shit who you voted for or where you come from. If you need a roof fixed, then so-and-so down the road will come by and help . . . and I mean help . . . not quote you a bid . . . just help. If they see someone with a flat tire, they pull over to change it for them. They swap services, supplies, and materials. They support each other and each other’s lives . . . no questions asked.

It gives a deeper layer to the meaning of “community.”

It reminded me of when I was in Ireland and I ended up spending five straight days in a small pub in Dunquin, Ireland. As with my Alaska trip, many of my Irish activities got nixed by the incessant rain. So, when in Rome, i.e., Ireland, you cozy up at a pub . . . and basically make it your second home. (It also helped that the bartender was hot and the Guinness in Ireland is the only way to drink Guinness). But during that time, I got to know everyone in that town. They took me in like one of their own. They even invited me to a wedding that was happening that weekend. And when I accidentally backed my tiny little Fiat car into a ditch (stone-cold sober by the way), a friendly Gaelic farmer named Ted came to help with his tractor. Tall and skinny as a beanstalk, with crazy curly hair, a handful of teeth, and a thick, indecipherable Gaelic accent, Ted struck me as the Irish equivalent of Kramer from Seinfeld. But it was Gaelic Ted to the rescue, with his trusty farm tractor, to pull my car from the ditch . . . no questions asked. (He did comment that I was not the first American he’s had to pull from a ditch).

In general, people in small communities seem to know how to connect better to the people around them. And while there certainly are many small communities that lack exposure to and acceptance of people from different cultures and backgrounds, the lesson to be learned here is that no matter what or where your community, we could all be better served by connecting to the people around us, starting with the people on your block, in your building, or even at the bar (if that’s your thing).

My time on Ron and A’s property . . .

and the few hours I spent in Denali park itself . . .

felt like home.

Here, just like at Ta Ch’ ila Lake, I felt a connection.

And I was filled with a deep sense of gratitude that a connection I made over twelve years ago on a flight to California led to my connection to this place.

Here’s your Trail Mix for today:

What I’m listening to: On the way out of Seward I was in a Mumford and Sons mood, especially songs like “Awake My Soul.” I’ve also continued listening to a book on Audible called An Immense World: How Animal Senses Reveal the Hidden Realms Around Us, by Ed Yong. This . . . is . . . fascinating. You think you “know” truth and reality and the world around you? Think again. Humans are limited in their senses, and I’m not talking about sixth sense kind of stuff. This book takes a deep, scientific dive into the mind-boggling depth of senses that animals have. We don’t see, hear, taste, smell, or feel a vast majority of what other creatures do. Talk about connecting to a deeper world of experience!

Lessons learned: You never know how the dots in your life will connect. And often, it’s not until we look back in hindsight, that we can see how everything connects. Then, and only then, does it all make sense.

So plant the seeds for connection in your life . . . because you never know what they will sprout into.

They may get you randomly invited to a wedding in Ireland . . .

or help you through a rough patch . . .

or find you enjoying a lovely outhouse in the woods along the boundary of a national park.

So what’s one small connection that you can try to foster a little more today? Is there a neighbor whom you’ve never met? A colleague you don’t speak to very often? Can you spend a little more time chatting up your barista or store clerk?

New meditation: I recorded a short bedtime meditation while I was on Ron and “A’s” property one evening. This meditation will take you through an exercise to gently tighten and release muscle groups in your body, which can help you fall asleep more easily.