No other single word epitomizes Alaska as does Denali – grandest, wildest, largest . . .
Evening campfire banter, stories of Alaskan adventure, is characterized by two topics.
The first is Denali.
The other – salmon.
Sitting around a campfire, chat focuses on the weather. Not just the weather, but Denali Weather. Sitting over 20,000 feet high Mount McKinley is the highest point on the North American continent. Being so grand it lures travelers from around the world to gawk. Most of the time it remains a mystery – an aberration that might just be there. As the moist air from the Gulf of Alaska, Chukchi Sea and Bering Sea drift over the state it condenses into a massive and wet airflow – an airflow feeding the mountain top icefields and snowfields; moisture finding its way into the snake-like glacial fingers crawling through mountain valleys. Not just McKinley, but many mountains in Alaska are often lopped off near their bases.
Kodiak Island has been a place that has long fascinated me. I’m not really sure why. I know nothing about it. It is just a place. Well, maybe not. It conjures images of massive bears – the Kodiak bear snatching fish from pristine streams. There must be Kodiak bears on Kodiak Island. For several weeks I explored around Seward. I always intended to go the Island but never did. After a ten day hiatus – a trip to Denali with friends my sights were set on Kodiak. Monday morning I leisurely packed my car. I had not heard from a college friend, now a teacher at Anchorage Junior Academy, whom I’d talked with about a photo presentation for her students.
Leaving the cabin I arrived in Palmer and was able to check messages. “We’re looking forward to having you show your pictures. I have it arranged for you to be here at 11:30. It was 1:15. Not good. After school I called to apologize. Instead we went for a bicycle ride in the mountains behind Anchorage.
We rescheduled for Tuesday. Tuesday afternoon I was set for Homer, then Kodiak Island. My car was loaded with fresh fruit. Being hungry after a successful photo presentation I stopped at Beluga Point for a snack. A couple arrived to do a wedding photoshoot. I took advantage of the opportunity. It is not often one finds a groom is his finest suit while shod with untied hiking boots or the bride in a strapless dress sporting knee high boots – rubber boots that is – both scaling tide washed cliffs. Photo session complete, I dropped into Girdwood, home of the Alyeska Ski Resort. By this time it was early evening and raining – really raining. Three hours to Homer and sleeping in the rain or two hours back to Palmer to camp in a cabin. I struggled with the decision. In the end – dry won. Kodiak Island was not to be.
Back in Palmer I had to regroup. The sun returned. Memories of driving out of Anchorage flashed through my mind. Mount McKinley dappled in evening light. I charted my course. My atlas showed a heavy red line over Hatcher Pass following Fishhook Road. Not being fond of retracing my route I ventured towards Hatcher Pass. It was breathtaking. The light was perfect – at least in my mirror – and the fall colours glowed. A small, gunshot pocked sign – Hatcher Pass – left. I looked. It pointed to a small gravel track – a track climbing steeply into the sky. Only two miles to the pass. That won’t be too bad. My car struggled up the steep, rocky track, spitting rocks as we bottomed out on the overgrown washboard and scraped bottom on camouflaged rocks. Instead of taking an hour to arrive in Willow my detour was going to take hours – if I made it at all.
Did it matter? No. The scenery rivaled Denali. It was close and personal. There were no tour buses vying their status on the rough track. After the pass the road’s character changed. Massive potholes – road-wide beds of potholes, replaced washboard. Weaving from shoulder to shoulder I threaded a path through the maze. Hours later I was still exploring the forty-mile shortcut.
At sunset I finally arrived at the South Denali Viewpoint. Fortunately it has been a several day reprieve from the cloudy skies. I sat mesmerized by the mountain creating the horizon and its glacially charged, braided stream channel in the valley below. The sunset, the moon rose and I still sat there. My elevation, high above the Chulitna River – 820 feet. McKinley – 20,320 feet. As the evening chill started to be noticed I made the drive to my tent. This morning I headed back to the same point to watch the mountain be transformed by the morning rays. I was not disappointed. It seems that the first ray touched South Peak, then reached over and to caress the higher McKinley. The trees along the river’s edge shimmered in golden hues. The river occasionally mirrored their colours. As the sun’s angle continued to change the chiseled and shoved glacial formations of the distant valley emerged.
Again I noticed the cold. My toes went numb and the magical morning hues faded. I decided to move on. I drove north. McKinley slipped behind a small, but much closer ridge, then reappeared. A few miles later a wide spot along the road appeared. I stopped for breakfast.
As I write McKinley stands guard – a massive pluton of magma extruded by pressure – still growing – stands to my west. Clouds – alto cumulus lenticularis - lenticular clouds cape the mountain from time to time as the winds aloft compress after encountering the massive obstacle rising from near sea level. To my east – a constant stream of traffic belches and rumbles by – tour buses, freight hauling trucks, caravans of RVs, sportsman hauling trailers loaded with quads, amphibious vehicles, tracked tundra buggies, and a few cars – all oblivious to the scenery – racing to their destination.
Finally a car stopped – “This is better than the park.”
Her husband blares the horn and yells through the window – “That’s enough. We must be going. I’ve already seen the mountain.”
Denali National Park. I was there last week with George and other family members. It was a very special visit. The family was getting together for a wedding. Before the celebration several of them took a cruise to Alaska then rented a RV for a few days. Being that George has Parkinson’s I decided to give him a surprise. I knew he wanted to visit Denali, but also knew he wouldn’t go. The sensory overload of crowds of people, people packed in to buses and being herded through visitor centres and through the narrow corridors of retired school buses were more than he could bear. I spent several weeks working to get a disability access permit to allow him to be driven into the park in a private vehicle. After receiving defamatory responses regarding his condition from park interpreters, then receiving no response from the park superintendent or secretary I was prepared to go public with my experience regarding Denali National Park’s adherence to the American’s with Disabilities Act, its refusal to communicate, and denying reasonable accommodation. Finally, late Friday afternoon, just hours before George arrived, I received a note from the park’s assistant superintendent. Attached is the form you need to obtain the permit. Please fill it out, return it by email or fax and a permit will be at the Visitor Centre when you arrive. (Denali is the name for the park, but it is my understanding that the official name of record for the mountain is still Mount McKinley).
After George arrived I almost immediately heard his disappointment about not being able to go to Denali, how the family wanted to go to the park, and how he had worked to persuade them not to go. I took him aside to tell him about the permit. While the family went to the Sea Life Center in Seward, George and I finalized the permit. He beamed – “We’re going to Denali.”
The week prior to our visit the weather had been superb. Denali showed herself everyday, but George brought the rain. Yes, it was disappointing to not see the mountain, but I believe the grandeur of the landscape is more fully appreciated with the mountain’s top obscured in the clouds. When it is clear the eye is drawn to the magnificence of the mountains, the focal point – Denali.
Denali is so spectacular that it distracts from the broad plains; serpentine channels of fractured ice loaded with streams of sediment; the mountains’ variegated lower facets; the ragged peaks of lesser mountains; the kaleidoscope of colours; the mists shrouding and releasing fleeting glimpses of the otherwise mystic landscape; the strangeness of a glacier green with vegetation; the mysterious element of the weather.
Even without the mountain I dare say everybody had spectacular day. A lone moose camouflaged in a meadow of vibrant red shrubs. Mountain mist separating to reveal a herd of Dall sheep grazing on the steep slopes. Watching a herd of caribou just below the cloudy cloak while on the horizon, on a low ridge a grizzly bear skylines, then walks toward us, munching on berries and lunging towards opportunistic magpies venturing too close. A bicoloured ptarmigan perched in an alder watching her chicks. As the snow let up a sow and two cubs romping across the alpine slope. A pair of moose – two massive males – sides still heaving, cooling in the icy pond after struggling against each other. The hillside above Wonder Lake shimmering in silver as the clouds momentarily parted. A lone caribou, antlers freshly cleansed of itchy velvet, sampling aquatic delicacies near Kantishna. On a hillside, high above the road, a sow and two cubs abruptly turning face to gallop a half mile just to dig out a ground squirrel, then swaggering into a ravine. A roadside bouncing with snowshoe hares, taunting the lynx we wished to see. A impenetrable mob of cars caused by two bulls and one cow – moose – cavorting in the road.
Today, everything is still here yet I struggle to see the immensity of the landscape, the overall beauty, the intricate details because I’m focused on the rock.
Perhaps that is the way it should be – focused on the Rock – not drawn to life’s distractions, distractions of the master deceiver.
