I arrived at the Alaskan border to find a small, but sturdy concrete building wrapped in cameras. I waited my turn and pulled up to the window. I handed over my passport, and the guard flipped through a few pages. After a few standard questions, he handed my passport back and said “Welcome home.” I was back in America and headed to Fairbanks, Alaska.
North of Fairbanks is the Dalton Highway, a road with a big reputation. It is mostly a commercial route for massive trucks to move mining equipment. There are very few gas stations and almost no cell service on this remote stretch of the Pan-American Highway. After only a few miles the pavement became dirt. Aside from the occasional semi truck, the road seemed to be mostly occupied by road crews grading the surface or spraying water to keep the dust down. I crossed over the Yukon River and came across large sign just off the road that said Arctic Circle. I slowed down and parked the bus. As far as I could see, there was only treeless, rolling tundra. It was so quiet. Latitude 66" 33' was written on the sign. This high up on the Earth you lose nearly a half hour of light every week of the year. The sun hovers instead of rising or falling. It is hard to know if you are coming or going.
I got back in my bus and headed towards Coldfoot Camp, one of the few fuel stops on this part of the route. It was only another 60 miles ahead, but the road surface was getting worse. My bus struggled to drive through the ruts. I got sucked into a pothole, then immediately into an even deeper one. Bang. The loud noise above my head was the bracket holding the fuse box in place. Metal-on-metal friction increased with every bump in the road. A rivet popped out of the ceiling and landed in my lap. Was the bus going to fall apart? I was in the middle of nowhere, no cell phone service, and the roads were getting worse. I made the decision to turn around.
I was in the middle of nowhere, no cell phone service, and the roads were getting worse. I made the decision to turn around.
I struggled with feeling like a failure. Was it the better decision? I needed a distraction, so I left I Fairbanks and headed for Denali National Park. I learned that park rules state private vehicles have restricted access. I gave in and bought a ticket for the park tour bus. This route offered me a chance of seeing Denali Mountain, one of the tallest mountains in the world. My bus driver for the day was Chavez. He was an Alaskan transplant. He’d moved here in his 20’s and loved it so much he never left. He’s been driving a tour buses through the park every summer for the last decade. I was glad to have someone else battle the roads of Alaska for a while. As the bus left, Denali’s peak was still blocked by clouds. Chavez kept pointing to where it would be if it were visible. Only 30% of visitors to the park ever see the peak, and today, there was barely a few hundred feet of visibility. We drove to end of the road, everyone got out and stared into the fog. No luck.
On the return trip, Chavez told us that when Native Alaskans went hunting, they would say they were simply going for a "look around the land." Perhaps he wanted to ease our disappointment for not seeing Denali, the very thing we had come for. But, according to Chavez, this was their way of mentally preparing themselves. You enjoy the journey more if you don’t put unnecessary pressure on yourself to succeed. I'm not sure if it's entirely true, but it was a good reminder of why I left home in the first place: to take a look around.
