Remember the old Brothers Grimm fairytales where the remote hero traveled to the edge of the world to accomplish some extraordinary and impossible task to win the hand of the fair princess? Back in the days when the earth was believed to be flat?
I imagined that the edge of the world would have looked like Seward, the meeting place between mountains and seas, where everything was silver at twilight, the ridges, the ripples, and even the stones on the shore. Darkness came a bit earlier, since Seward was farther south than Denali, but there was always a lingering reflection of light somewhere.
Mount Marathon was the highest peak in the city, and renowned for the races held on Independence Day. Only 900 people were allowed to run (first-come, first-serve basis), and all of Alaska turned out to cheer their brethren. It was a distance of approxiamtely 3.1 miles and it seemed that both Matthias and Lola had signed up to run.
Since Mt Marathon was the most happening place to be during the Fourth of July, where did I go? Naturally, I had booked a day cruise to view the Kenai Fjords and wildlife, virtue of my lovely habit of procrastination and there was little availability on the other days. This suited me fine, since I was never the life-of-the-party, center-of-everything kind of gal.
The boat was divided in little tables and I wound up sitting among a lady with a bleeding lip, a father-and-son pair from Montana or Wyoming on a bonding excursion. The lady looked a bit disheveled, and she related how walkable Mt. Kilimanjaro was. "It's a very long distance, but you just walk it. Porters carry your stuff for you."
On to wildlife viewing. I confess that I saw seals and eagles and a whale or two, but quite honestly the recollection was blurry. What I did remember distinctly were the ice formations floating on the sea's surface and breathtaking glaciers that glowed blue and white. Chunks of ice continually dribbled from the glacier onto the sea, creating a lacelike swirl. Chris, son from my table, offered to take my picture.
I don't think I've ever met anyone so balanced. Chris was a geologist on temporary assignment in Anchorage, and his father was visiting for a few days. Even his appearance was earthy, hair the color of cinnamon.
I was nodding; the boat was tumbling and waves of sea sickness hit me all at once. Wondering how I could appear attractive while pulling the Bonine tablets (that Matthias had given me yesterday) out of my overstuffed backpack, I confessed that I was feeling a bit queasy and ran to get some hot water.
Miraculous solution: hot water and lemon and honey. Cures all kinds of indigestion. I came upon the remedy accidentally, by vomiting in Capri after I had stayed up all night to watch the sun rise over Sicily. Needless to say, I am one of those creatures whose sleep is vital to functioning.
So I must have been gone for about twenty-five minutes searching for my remedy. I wondered if Chris was still there. In my part of the world, that fast New York bar hopping scene, you disappear for five minutes and the promising prospect you were talking to has already found another proposition.
I peeked before going above the cabin, to the deck.
Yep, he was still there.
And he still wanted to take me out.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Onward to Seward
Seward was the place to be for the Fourth of July. Famous for its fishing, glaciers, and wildlife off the coast of the Kenai Peninsula, the city is the namesake of the politician who negotiated the territory's purchase from Russia. Remember Seward's Icebox?
I got there on the afternoon of July 3rd. The bus stop was approximately one mile from the Moby Dick hostel and my duffel bag seemed to have grown inexorably heavy. Hence began my own stint at hitchhiking. Being the skeptical New Yorker that I am, I wasn't about to hitch a ride with just any old car. I was extremely selective.
Here was my strategy: Aim for the minivans and the moms. Reason #1: With women, there was significantly lower probability of being sexually assaulted or raped, although the risk still existed in the case of lesbians. Reason #2: No mother would attempt to murder me in front of the cherished offspring she had labored so long and hard to bring into this world. Reason # 3: A minivan almost guaranteed that it was a mother and a child who was more or less completely dependent on maternal care, so the kid would be a welcome distraction should I need to escape. Nonetheless, I made sure that I saw a car-seat and some adorable, cherubic little darling bouncing from the back before I got in.
I picked 'em better than expected. A shapely young mother drove me to the hostel, pushing blond bangs out of her watery blue eyes as she told me about her husband, a pilot who flew tourists over the scenic glaciers. It was $200 a trip, but would be $50 per person if I could find 3 other passengers to go with me and split the cost. So I spent the next hour searching for flight companions. I was not particularly successful, since the typical hardy hostel-frequenting adventurer preferred to climb Exit Glacier for free. Yep, Princess still had a lot to learn.
Moby Dick hostel was owned by a German couple, a male psychiatric nurse and his corporate wife, who decided to retreat from stresses of the rat race here in Alaska. They run the hostel during summer months and then hibernate in their cabins in the winter season, home-schooling the kids.
Culturally, Alaska is a different country compared to the Lower 48. They don't understand materialism, this concept of having stuff, or the competitive nature of acquiring things (although recent transplants are changing that in Anchorage). Their values are much simpler and down to earth. They are only interested in climbing or fishing or hiking or hunting, and everything else is a distraction. Jobs are meant to pass the time until they can get outdoors and the warmth startles nature back to life.
The owners then showed me the patio, where a group of travelers were enjoying the hours before dusk with beers and books. There was a loud, boisterous blond girl named Lola who would not stop talking about herself. Next to her was a charming Swiss economist who was making his rounds around the state after summiting McKinley.
His name was Matthias.
I got there on the afternoon of July 3rd. The bus stop was approximately one mile from the Moby Dick hostel and my duffel bag seemed to have grown inexorably heavy. Hence began my own stint at hitchhiking. Being the skeptical New Yorker that I am, I wasn't about to hitch a ride with just any old car. I was extremely selective.
Here was my strategy: Aim for the minivans and the moms. Reason #1: With women, there was significantly lower probability of being sexually assaulted or raped, although the risk still existed in the case of lesbians. Reason #2: No mother would attempt to murder me in front of the cherished offspring she had labored so long and hard to bring into this world. Reason # 3: A minivan almost guaranteed that it was a mother and a child who was more or less completely dependent on maternal care, so the kid would be a welcome distraction should I need to escape. Nonetheless, I made sure that I saw a car-seat and some adorable, cherubic little darling bouncing from the back before I got in.
I picked 'em better than expected. A shapely young mother drove me to the hostel, pushing blond bangs out of her watery blue eyes as she told me about her husband, a pilot who flew tourists over the scenic glaciers. It was $200 a trip, but would be $50 per person if I could find 3 other passengers to go with me and split the cost. So I spent the next hour searching for flight companions. I was not particularly successful, since the typical hardy hostel-frequenting adventurer preferred to climb Exit Glacier for free. Yep, Princess still had a lot to learn.
Moby Dick hostel was owned by a German couple, a male psychiatric nurse and his corporate wife, who decided to retreat from stresses of the rat race here in Alaska. They run the hostel during summer months and then hibernate in their cabins in the winter season, home-schooling the kids.
Culturally, Alaska is a different country compared to the Lower 48. They don't understand materialism, this concept of having stuff, or the competitive nature of acquiring things (although recent transplants are changing that in Anchorage). Their values are much simpler and down to earth. They are only interested in climbing or fishing or hiking or hunting, and everything else is a distraction. Jobs are meant to pass the time until they can get outdoors and the warmth startles nature back to life.
The owners then showed me the patio, where a group of travelers were enjoying the hours before dusk with beers and books. There was a loud, boisterous blond girl named Lola who would not stop talking about herself. Next to her was a charming Swiss economist who was making his rounds around the state after summiting McKinley.
His name was Matthias.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Denali: Day Three...Part Deux
Edith Wharton said that one of the most unknown traits of 1920's New Yorkers is that they like to get away from amusement faster than they liked to get there. Same is true of Denali tourists. After hiking along the mountains and around the picturesque valleys of the Eielson Visitor Center, Kari and Howie and I were ready to go back. No such luck.
It was around 5pm. Apparently, fatigue struck at universal times, as every tour bus that passed through was already packed with exhausted adventurers from the previous stop. We waited for nearly two hours before Aramark sent an additional bus out to pick us up. I realized that it was far better to be at the first or at the very last stop; those in the middle were merely neglected. Interesting commentary; this was also the plight of the American middle class.
Sweaty and tired, I slumped down on the bench, waiting for the hostel's shuttle. It was a humid day, and the air was teeming with mosquitoes. To protect my fair complexion, I wore the headnet, which covered my face entirely. The fibrous material was so opaque that I could barely see through. I grew hot after a while and endeavored to take it off.
Uh oh. It was stuck. It was essentially a netted bag over the head, with a drawstring at the neck and the string was knotted fast. There I sat, struggling to get the net off and failing miserably. Worse yet, I could not see where I was going. Let's not even get into how ridiculous I felt. Thank God no one else was there.
Then Joan sat beside me, uncharacteristically silent. I never thought I would be glad to see her.
"How was your day?"
"Great and exhausting. I went all the way out to Kantishna." Kantishna was an old gold mining town, located at the very end of the route at mile 92 and surrounded by private property.
"Umm...can you help me with something? Could you help me take this off?"
I cringed in anticipation. I braced myself for the giggles, the snickers, at the very least a joke or two about the foolishness of finding myself stuck with a mosquito net over my head.
Joan did not react the way I expected. She simply looked at me, said sure, and promptly untied the mosquito net.
I was humbled. Here was a woman whose gauche disposition and inappropriately young mannerisms had caused me to avoid her. Yet despite her idiosyncracies, she was far more generous-hearted than me. She did not judge.
I came to see her differently. Sure, she was still annoying, but she possessed a childlike wonder, appreciating everything. A pureness of joy that most people would find disorienting because she was so insistent on sharing.
And I needed her.
I thanked her heartily.
When I returned to the hostel, everyone was having dinner together, sort of a spontaneous farewell ritual. Since it was the end of a weekend, everyone would set off to a different city tomorrow. I sat down with a group of Australians (those ubiquitous Australians!), conversing freely and without inhibition. It was only here in Alaska that people were willing to accept who I am at the moment, who I am evolving into, and who I would ultimately become. Back at home, I was stifled by expectations of who I was. Trapped into stagnancy.
I related what the mountains taught me, that my true identity was being the daughter of this great interconnected world, this divine spirit that binds us all.
They nodded in agreement. Then I noticed Rick looking at me shyly and moving slowly to sit next to me. We ended up talking all night, long after the others had left the common room.
He had joined the navy after finishing college, and found it difficult to obey the orders of superiors who were not educated. He was on active duty, but unhappily so. He elaborated on the cramped quarters of the ship, the few precious weeks of leave, and his fears about Afghanistan. He didn't want to go home to Virginia because his wife left him months before and being a good Catholic Filipino boy, his parents would not accept a divorce.
I listened. Then he told me he noticed me that first day, and singled me out each time our buses crossed paths, but I seemed so presumptuous that he didn't want to talk to me.
So why talk to me now?
"Now I think I know you better."
The sky finally darkened, and he gave me a massage, his fingers lingering along my shoulder as if was the most delicate porcelain. He was a gentleman and I was glad, as I did not want to cheapen a human connection by turning it into a one night stand. He asked if he could hold me, to bring the memory of a warm woman with him back to the ship. He held me until the sun rose.
I stumbled into my (shared) room at daybreak, but I didn't sleep the hour and a half before my scheduled departure. I kept turning the idea over and over in my head, but I couldn't definitely decide what to do. When it was time, I packed my bags and ran out to the shuttle.
On impulse, I ran back and banged the door of Rick's cabin. I woke him up as well as his baffled neighbors, and kissed him. It was a long, passionate kiss, with morning breath and all. Then I went on my way.
You see, we all need each other.
It was around 5pm. Apparently, fatigue struck at universal times, as every tour bus that passed through was already packed with exhausted adventurers from the previous stop. We waited for nearly two hours before Aramark sent an additional bus out to pick us up. I realized that it was far better to be at the first or at the very last stop; those in the middle were merely neglected. Interesting commentary; this was also the plight of the American middle class.
Sweaty and tired, I slumped down on the bench, waiting for the hostel's shuttle. It was a humid day, and the air was teeming with mosquitoes. To protect my fair complexion, I wore the headnet, which covered my face entirely. The fibrous material was so opaque that I could barely see through. I grew hot after a while and endeavored to take it off.
Uh oh. It was stuck. It was essentially a netted bag over the head, with a drawstring at the neck and the string was knotted fast. There I sat, struggling to get the net off and failing miserably. Worse yet, I could not see where I was going. Let's not even get into how ridiculous I felt. Thank God no one else was there.
Then Joan sat beside me, uncharacteristically silent. I never thought I would be glad to see her.
"How was your day?"
"Great and exhausting. I went all the way out to Kantishna." Kantishna was an old gold mining town, located at the very end of the route at mile 92 and surrounded by private property.
"Umm...can you help me with something? Could you help me take this off?"
I cringed in anticipation. I braced myself for the giggles, the snickers, at the very least a joke or two about the foolishness of finding myself stuck with a mosquito net over my head.
Joan did not react the way I expected. She simply looked at me, said sure, and promptly untied the mosquito net.
I was humbled. Here was a woman whose gauche disposition and inappropriately young mannerisms had caused me to avoid her. Yet despite her idiosyncracies, she was far more generous-hearted than me. She did not judge.
I came to see her differently. Sure, she was still annoying, but she possessed a childlike wonder, appreciating everything. A pureness of joy that most people would find disorienting because she was so insistent on sharing.
And I needed her.
I thanked her heartily.
When I returned to the hostel, everyone was having dinner together, sort of a spontaneous farewell ritual. Since it was the end of a weekend, everyone would set off to a different city tomorrow. I sat down with a group of Australians (those ubiquitous Australians!), conversing freely and without inhibition. It was only here in Alaska that people were willing to accept who I am at the moment, who I am evolving into, and who I would ultimately become. Back at home, I was stifled by expectations of who I was. Trapped into stagnancy.
I related what the mountains taught me, that my true identity was being the daughter of this great interconnected world, this divine spirit that binds us all.
They nodded in agreement. Then I noticed Rick looking at me shyly and moving slowly to sit next to me. We ended up talking all night, long after the others had left the common room.
He had joined the navy after finishing college, and found it difficult to obey the orders of superiors who were not educated. He was on active duty, but unhappily so. He elaborated on the cramped quarters of the ship, the few precious weeks of leave, and his fears about Afghanistan. He didn't want to go home to Virginia because his wife left him months before and being a good Catholic Filipino boy, his parents would not accept a divorce.
I listened. Then he told me he noticed me that first day, and singled me out each time our buses crossed paths, but I seemed so presumptuous that he didn't want to talk to me.
So why talk to me now?
"Now I think I know you better."
The sky finally darkened, and he gave me a massage, his fingers lingering along my shoulder as if was the most delicate porcelain. He was a gentleman and I was glad, as I did not want to cheapen a human connection by turning it into a one night stand. He asked if he could hold me, to bring the memory of a warm woman with him back to the ship. He held me until the sun rose.
I stumbled into my (shared) room at daybreak, but I didn't sleep the hour and a half before my scheduled departure. I kept turning the idea over and over in my head, but I couldn't definitely decide what to do. When it was time, I packed my bags and ran out to the shuttle.
On impulse, I ran back and banged the door of Rick's cabin. I woke him up as well as his baffled neighbors, and kissed him. It was a long, passionate kiss, with morning breath and all. Then I went on my way.
You see, we all need each other.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Denali: Day Three...Part 1
It must have been the alcohol that kept me warm. Squirming in my sleep, I became aware of the frost in sunless hours of the night, which was between 3 to 5am. I watched the sun rise from my tent, a permanent structure that was quite sturdy and roomy and somewhat drafty. The Denali Mountain Morning Hostel was situated on the edge of the woods, and I was sure I was going to get eaten by bears before morning.
The first person I encountered was Joan, a fifty-something woman with a bulbous nose, unflinching eyes, and a bob hairstyle that seemed too young for her face. She proceeded to tell me she had stopped at Talkeetna (quaint tourist town in Alaska) and she loudly enunciated the KEET part of it. I thought of her as a parakeet, KEET, chirpy and over-eager. I made a mental note stay away from her.
Rick was on the shuttle at the same time, but he didn't say a word to me. Not even "hi" or "good morning." Instead I talked to the shuttle driver, a redheaded girl with dreadlocks, who was actually from Minnesota and came to work here for the summer. Actually, a lot of strapping young folks take summer jobs in Alaska for the opportunity to enjoy the great outdoors in their downtime.
Joan, Rick,and I got off the shuttle and waited for our buses in the Denali Visitor Center. Depending on your destination and the distance from the entrance, there were a plethora of different buses on different schedules. I was headed to Wonder Lake at mile 85, a gorgeous reflective surface where the majesty of McKinley would be doubled. Mosquitoes were also abundant in that moist wetland, so I came prepared with a mosquito net.
I took the 7:55 am bus, accounting for the 11 hours roundtrip. Now these buses also provided a rare glimpse into this untamed land and all associated wildlife. Every time an animal was spotted, we were to yell "Stop!" and the bus would halt for a closer look. I saw a fox, caribou, coyote, and an eagle. But mostly, I saw rocks. My companions on the bus were a bunch of over-excited, happy-to-be-there Asians, and they yelled "Stop!" at everything. Usually, it was a rock or a lone ranger walking along the road. I began to worry that I would arrive at Wonder Lake too late to see McKinley, since clouds of condensation typically formed at the peak at around 11am. Worse, the 8:25 am bus passed us, even though it was scheduled to run 30 minutes later. Joan saw me from the window of the other bus and waved voraciously. I turned in the other direction.
After a 4 hour ride, the bus took a lengthened stop at the Eielson Visitor Center, 19miles from my destination. Disheartened, I took out my lunch and sat at the picnic tables, which coincidentally offered lovely views of McKinley. I began to dread going back to the bus. Out of the corner of my eye, someone was waving at me. I hoped it wasn't Joan.
It turned out to be Kari. She was waiting for Howie and jumped up to talk to me.
"I was hoping we'd see you." We forgot to exchange phone numbers the day before.
She pointed to a small, surmountable mountain, or so it seemed to me.
"There's a ranger hike up that mountain at one o'clock. You have to reserve your spot and it's all filled up now."
I must have looked crestfallen.
"Don't worry, we got you in. Howie put your name on the list, just in case."
I don't remember when the bus left, but I wasn't on it. Kari, Howie, and I shared our life stories. We explored the Eielson Center together, a de facto museum with historical artifacts, complete with the skulls of mammals. On display outside, there were two skulls of mountain goats, interlocked by their white horns. Apparently, they had gotten tangled and perished, unable to pry themselves from the other.
Time for the hike. We climbed up the mountain along the rocky path, and it was strewn with flowers, weeds, and green vegetation. Strolling behind me was an eight year old boy who somehow wound up in front of me. Nonetheless, I wasn't as tired as yesterday. As I climbed higher and higher, I marveled at the beauty before me. McKinley loomed over us like a great creator, an immortal pillar before us puny humans. Its ridges were the deepest cobalt and the snow was a crowning glory of unadulterated white.
I realized I had been blind. Since yesterday, I had been so busy surviving, catching my breath, that I didn't see the awe-striking wonders of this place, even though it was right before my eyes. We are so busy, so consumed with ourselves, trying to live. We are so concerned with moving and going somewhere. And our blindness is self-inflicted. When we stop struggling, the simplest truths reveal themselves. The earth is beautiful. Life is exquisite. We are.
Then I reached the summit. It was a familiar feeling. That sense of exultation, of victory, of overcoming not only external obstacles, but overcoming myself. My own fears and doubts. My own demons. Liberation. To be freed from the self. How funny that sounds, to be free we must forget ourselves. To understand that there is something so immense, so much greater than ourselves. To know that we matter so little in ourselves, but it is in the connectedness, the unity of man and nature that keeps us eternal, because we were here and we were part of this. This was where I found God again.
The first person I encountered was Joan, a fifty-something woman with a bulbous nose, unflinching eyes, and a bob hairstyle that seemed too young for her face. She proceeded to tell me she had stopped at Talkeetna (quaint tourist town in Alaska) and she loudly enunciated the KEET part of it. I thought of her as a parakeet, KEET, chirpy and over-eager. I made a mental note stay away from her.
Rick was on the shuttle at the same time, but he didn't say a word to me. Not even "hi" or "good morning." Instead I talked to the shuttle driver, a redheaded girl with dreadlocks, who was actually from Minnesota and came to work here for the summer. Actually, a lot of strapping young folks take summer jobs in Alaska for the opportunity to enjoy the great outdoors in their downtime.
Joan, Rick,and I got off the shuttle and waited for our buses in the Denali Visitor Center. Depending on your destination and the distance from the entrance, there were a plethora of different buses on different schedules. I was headed to Wonder Lake at mile 85, a gorgeous reflective surface where the majesty of McKinley would be doubled. Mosquitoes were also abundant in that moist wetland, so I came prepared with a mosquito net.
I took the 7:55 am bus, accounting for the 11 hours roundtrip. Now these buses also provided a rare glimpse into this untamed land and all associated wildlife. Every time an animal was spotted, we were to yell "Stop!" and the bus would halt for a closer look. I saw a fox, caribou, coyote, and an eagle. But mostly, I saw rocks. My companions on the bus were a bunch of over-excited, happy-to-be-there Asians, and they yelled "Stop!" at everything. Usually, it was a rock or a lone ranger walking along the road. I began to worry that I would arrive at Wonder Lake too late to see McKinley, since clouds of condensation typically formed at the peak at around 11am. Worse, the 8:25 am bus passed us, even though it was scheduled to run 30 minutes later. Joan saw me from the window of the other bus and waved voraciously. I turned in the other direction.
After a 4 hour ride, the bus took a lengthened stop at the Eielson Visitor Center, 19miles from my destination. Disheartened, I took out my lunch and sat at the picnic tables, which coincidentally offered lovely views of McKinley. I began to dread going back to the bus. Out of the corner of my eye, someone was waving at me. I hoped it wasn't Joan.
It turned out to be Kari. She was waiting for Howie and jumped up to talk to me.
"I was hoping we'd see you." We forgot to exchange phone numbers the day before.
She pointed to a small, surmountable mountain, or so it seemed to me.
"There's a ranger hike up that mountain at one o'clock. You have to reserve your spot and it's all filled up now."
I must have looked crestfallen.
"Don't worry, we got you in. Howie put your name on the list, just in case."
I don't remember when the bus left, but I wasn't on it. Kari, Howie, and I shared our life stories. We explored the Eielson Center together, a de facto museum with historical artifacts, complete with the skulls of mammals. On display outside, there were two skulls of mountain goats, interlocked by their white horns. Apparently, they had gotten tangled and perished, unable to pry themselves from the other.
Time for the hike. We climbed up the mountain along the rocky path, and it was strewn with flowers, weeds, and green vegetation. Strolling behind me was an eight year old boy who somehow wound up in front of me. Nonetheless, I wasn't as tired as yesterday. As I climbed higher and higher, I marveled at the beauty before me. McKinley loomed over us like a great creator, an immortal pillar before us puny humans. Its ridges were the deepest cobalt and the snow was a crowning glory of unadulterated white.
I realized I had been blind. Since yesterday, I had been so busy surviving, catching my breath, that I didn't see the awe-striking wonders of this place, even though it was right before my eyes. We are so busy, so consumed with ourselves, trying to live. We are so concerned with moving and going somewhere. And our blindness is self-inflicted. When we stop struggling, the simplest truths reveal themselves. The earth is beautiful. Life is exquisite. We are.
Then I reached the summit. It was a familiar feeling. That sense of exultation, of victory, of overcoming not only external obstacles, but overcoming myself. My own fears and doubts. My own demons. Liberation. To be freed from the self. How funny that sounds, to be free we must forget ourselves. To understand that there is something so immense, so much greater than ourselves. To know that we matter so little in ourselves, but it is in the connectedness, the unity of man and nature that keeps us eternal, because we were here and we were part of this. This was where I found God again.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Denali: Day Two
So began my trek into the wilderness. I got up early for my appointed hike with a Denali ranger, since it is recommended for single stragglers and no, I did not buy the suggested bell to stave off bears. Later I learned that the sound of human voices was just as repulsive to them.
Sitting on the hostel's shuttle, I spoke to a charming Scottish guy who kept talking about the black bears of Kodiak Island, the southernmost tip of Alaska. He also asked me where I was the night before. Asleep, I admitted. Apparently, all the young'uns of the hostel went to a bar last night and there was one particular Navy guy who was quite amusing when utterly intoxicated.
"Maybe you should meet him." Hmm...
As I waited for the ranger, I surveyed the hardy types who had signed up for the hike and realized I was a fish out of water. They were lean, well-muscled gals and guys who stretched for the ordeal, and handled their raingear, backpacks, and other paraphernalia with such ease that it seemed almost second nature to them. Only one other woman was of my petite stature, but she dressed like a professional climber.
The bus took us to Mile 47. Now Denali National Park is such a vast expanse of land, over 9,400 square miles or 6 million acres, that each stop was denoted by the number of miles from the front entrance. The major scenic stops were at least 50 miles inland, and that distance alone was approximately 6 hours roundtrip. On clear days, there is an imposing view of the grandiose Mt. McKinley, snowcapped and silver-blue in all its glory.
So, introductions. One couple was in the army, inadvertently flaunting bulging biceps and mentioned their three kids at home. Another group of friends identified themselves as adventurers and seasoned campers. There was a very attractive, older couple who lived in Colorado Springs and expressed their love for skiing, hiking, and climbing. They came complete with hiking sticks.
Oh boy. "Uhh...I grew up in New York City and I'm an indoors kind of girl."
Perplexing stares.
"I'm here because I find nature very beautiful and I need to be shocked out of my comfort zone." Literally. A sympathetic smile or two in reply, but most rolled their eyes dramatically, what is she doing here? Interesting, I was wondering that myself.
We hadn't gone very far before I was at least five yards behind the pack. It seemed like overcoming a mountain (truthfully, a tall hill) and an eternity before I could reach them. Out of politeness or perhaps pity or even liability concerns, they stopped every 15 minutes for me to catch up.
Then we had to cross a stream. Rushing water is a sound I associate with Alaska, as the mountains boasted myriad tributaries of thriving, gushing H2O. Water is the life force of the land, pulsing through bitter rock and harsh tundra. I was reminded of the water transportation system of the ancient Incas, how a path was carved through a network of filters. The purest rainwater would travel from the summit of Macchu Picchu to the very bottom of villages. Straight from a pagan god.
Back to reality. Remember the slightly too large hiking boots I purchased because of the colors? Well, the living, breathing waters of the stream conveniently spirited my left boot away as I was navigating across. I wound up chasing it downstream with the other boot wobbling at my ankle.
I jumped over logs, tripped over moss, and scrambled along prickly brambles after my shoe. I ended up on my derriere quite a few times. The dainty gold bracelet I always wore? Muddied beyond recognition. No doubt, I made an extraordinary spectacle of myself to the casual observer. Let's not even get into what the meticulous observer would see.
When I finally retrieved it, rather fished it out with a crooked branch, my pants and feet were soaked. Of course I did not bring a change of socks. Thankfully, Kari, the pretty climber from Colorado, gave me a fresh pair of socks. I befriended Kari and her husband Howie; they gave me excellent hiking tips and even loaned me their sticks. So now I was only two yards behind everyone else.
"Look! Bear!" Wildlife sighting? I had no clue. Everyone was tangibly excited, binoculars, cameras, photos with video. I didn't have the wherewithall to even see what they were talking about. When my eyes finally adjusted to the barely visible furry creature dashing across land, it was gone. But then, it wasn't all that impressive to begin with. The only time I will be close enough to admire a bear, it would probably eat me. Did I mention I was nearsighted?
Kari and Howie drove me back to the hostel and treated me to a lovely dinner of pizza. It was particularly lovely because I had not carried adequate food for lunch. (I just didn't think I'd be that hungry.)
Afterwards, I joined the Scottish guy and the others for a beer. Rick, a cute Hispanic newcomer, mentioned that he just got off his ship (Navy) and would be deploying to Afghanistan upon his return. Buzzed, I asked him if he recovered from last night's good time and received a dirty look in reply. He stalked off without any further conversation. Slightly inebriated, I didn't notice it was becoming icy cold.
As I walked into my room, I was notified that the bed was no longer mine.
"Don't you remember? Because you booked late, there are no beds available tonight. You'll have to sleep outside in Tent # 2."
Sitting on the hostel's shuttle, I spoke to a charming Scottish guy who kept talking about the black bears of Kodiak Island, the southernmost tip of Alaska. He also asked me where I was the night before. Asleep, I admitted. Apparently, all the young'uns of the hostel went to a bar last night and there was one particular Navy guy who was quite amusing when utterly intoxicated.
"Maybe you should meet him." Hmm...
As I waited for the ranger, I surveyed the hardy types who had signed up for the hike and realized I was a fish out of water. They were lean, well-muscled gals and guys who stretched for the ordeal, and handled their raingear, backpacks, and other paraphernalia with such ease that it seemed almost second nature to them. Only one other woman was of my petite stature, but she dressed like a professional climber.
The bus took us to Mile 47. Now Denali National Park is such a vast expanse of land, over 9,400 square miles or 6 million acres, that each stop was denoted by the number of miles from the front entrance. The major scenic stops were at least 50 miles inland, and that distance alone was approximately 6 hours roundtrip. On clear days, there is an imposing view of the grandiose Mt. McKinley, snowcapped and silver-blue in all its glory.
So, introductions. One couple was in the army, inadvertently flaunting bulging biceps and mentioned their three kids at home. Another group of friends identified themselves as adventurers and seasoned campers. There was a very attractive, older couple who lived in Colorado Springs and expressed their love for skiing, hiking, and climbing. They came complete with hiking sticks.
Oh boy. "Uhh...I grew up in New York City and I'm an indoors kind of girl."
Perplexing stares.
"I'm here because I find nature very beautiful and I need to be shocked out of my comfort zone." Literally. A sympathetic smile or two in reply, but most rolled their eyes dramatically, what is she doing here? Interesting, I was wondering that myself.
We hadn't gone very far before I was at least five yards behind the pack. It seemed like overcoming a mountain (truthfully, a tall hill) and an eternity before I could reach them. Out of politeness or perhaps pity or even liability concerns, they stopped every 15 minutes for me to catch up.
Then we had to cross a stream. Rushing water is a sound I associate with Alaska, as the mountains boasted myriad tributaries of thriving, gushing H2O. Water is the life force of the land, pulsing through bitter rock and harsh tundra. I was reminded of the water transportation system of the ancient Incas, how a path was carved through a network of filters. The purest rainwater would travel from the summit of Macchu Picchu to the very bottom of villages. Straight from a pagan god.
Back to reality. Remember the slightly too large hiking boots I purchased because of the colors? Well, the living, breathing waters of the stream conveniently spirited my left boot away as I was navigating across. I wound up chasing it downstream with the other boot wobbling at my ankle.
I jumped over logs, tripped over moss, and scrambled along prickly brambles after my shoe. I ended up on my derriere quite a few times. The dainty gold bracelet I always wore? Muddied beyond recognition. No doubt, I made an extraordinary spectacle of myself to the casual observer. Let's not even get into what the meticulous observer would see.
When I finally retrieved it, rather fished it out with a crooked branch, my pants and feet were soaked. Of course I did not bring a change of socks. Thankfully, Kari, the pretty climber from Colorado, gave me a fresh pair of socks. I befriended Kari and her husband Howie; they gave me excellent hiking tips and even loaned me their sticks. So now I was only two yards behind everyone else.
"Look! Bear!" Wildlife sighting? I had no clue. Everyone was tangibly excited, binoculars, cameras, photos with video. I didn't have the wherewithall to even see what they were talking about. When my eyes finally adjusted to the barely visible furry creature dashing across land, it was gone. But then, it wasn't all that impressive to begin with. The only time I will be close enough to admire a bear, it would probably eat me. Did I mention I was nearsighted?
Kari and Howie drove me back to the hostel and treated me to a lovely dinner of pizza. It was particularly lovely because I had not carried adequate food for lunch. (I just didn't think I'd be that hungry.)
Afterwards, I joined the Scottish guy and the others for a beer. Rick, a cute Hispanic newcomer, mentioned that he just got off his ship (Navy) and would be deploying to Afghanistan upon his return. Buzzed, I asked him if he recovered from last night's good time and received a dirty look in reply. He stalked off without any further conversation. Slightly inebriated, I didn't notice it was becoming icy cold.
As I walked into my room, I was notified that the bed was no longer mine.
"Don't you remember? Because you booked late, there are no beds available tonight. You'll have to sleep outside in Tent # 2."
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Denali: Day One
Midnight. Alaska. My plane landed at approximately 4am EST; I was groggy and sleep-deprived, thanks to perpetually screaming babies on two arduous three-hour flights, punctuated by a four hour layover in Seattle. Now I had not seen Aunt Mary since the mid-1990s, and I prayed she would recognize me. Not to worry, I had just pulled my duffel bag off the conveyor belt and stepped outside when a young, energetic woman embraced me.
We were up until 5am (Alaska time) sharing gossip, discovering our mutual independence, and confiding the familial pressures to conform. All the while, she was stuffing my backpack with forgotten necessities (insect repellant, extra-warm set of fleece, electric blanket in case it gets cold at night, etc).
Mary was somewhat of a renegade: bold, beautiful, and unabashedly single. She was married once, divorced, and doesn't bother to go steady. When I asked why, she shrugged and replied flippantly, "You get upset if they don't call. You get upset if they do call a few days later. You get upset if they do call and don't do what you expect. Why bother being upset?"
Good point. Sometimes the truth needs to be crystallized in simple terms.
"Besides," she added, grinning, "there are more men than women here."
Then we prepared to catch my train at 7 am. Why so early, you ask? Rule #1: In Alaska, public transportation is extremely and incomparably limited. How limited? Most buses have only two departures a day: one in the morning and one in the evening. Shuttles are even worse; there is only one departure per day. Which explains why the preferred method of traveling in the state is hitchhiking. In fact, you could get fined several hundred dollars for refusing to pick up a hitchhiker during the winter. Here is the rationale: it gets so bitterly and devastatingly cold during those dark months that the hitchhiker could freeze to death before the next car comes along.
Since it took nearly 8 hours to travel from Anchorage to Denali, it was wise to take the early train. The sky was cloudless and austerely bright. The rail route wove through a gorgeous inlet called Turnagain Arm, offering dramatic views of mountains and scenery, with prolific eagles and whales. Not having an eye for watching wildlife, I saw stunning peaks that struck me mute with awe and silver waters that reflected each peak like a spiral that reached towards both heaven and earth. This stretch of land is legendary for its beauty, placed in the same league as Italy's Amalfi coast.
Then I sought a nap (I was up 36 hours at this point), but was plagued by the same curse: crying infants on the train.
In the afternoon, I finally stumbled into the Visitor Center at Denali National Park, operated on monopoly by the ubiquitous Aramark. I tried to buy a latte and was promptly charged $33.06. No, there was no alcohol, there was nothing special about the latte and I did read the board before buying (it was supposed to be $3.36). Just an incompetent clerk. Given the economic problems of this country, why are people like that still employed?
Plopping myself on a bench and feeling very heavy with fatigue, I waited for the shuttle from the Denali Mountain Morning Hostel to pick me up. The inevitable question: why on earth did "Princess" book a hostel?
Rule # 2: Denali National Park is a paradox and offers two extremities. There is luxurious lodging for $300 plus a night, or hostel lodging for $30 a night (or you can camp inside the park for free, although there are bears and the Park authorities will not be held legally accountable). There is no in-between. For the truly rustic, affluent adventurer, you can opt for an extraordinary log cabin with sumptuous room service, a spacious hot tub, and included personal laundry services. Or you can share a room with four other poor students.
Being jobless without any substantial possession to my name, I prudently chose the hostel. However, I had no idea what to expect, since I always frequented the Marriott or Hilton whenever I traveled for work.
To my pleasant surprise, the hostel was a well-organized lodge with clean amenities, a lovely kitchen, and surrounded by a host of smaller cabins. There was also plenty of young travelers from all over the world to converse with.
On that first night, however, I was a zombie. Once I saw that my bed and sheets were clean (I had six roommates), I collapsed in exhaustion.
At 2 am, someone opened the window and rays of resplendent sunshine fell onto my face. Apparently, the sun had not yet set. During the summer, Alaska boasts nearly 22hours of daylight.
A never-ending day.
We were up until 5am (Alaska time) sharing gossip, discovering our mutual independence, and confiding the familial pressures to conform. All the while, she was stuffing my backpack with forgotten necessities (insect repellant, extra-warm set of fleece, electric blanket in case it gets cold at night, etc).
Mary was somewhat of a renegade: bold, beautiful, and unabashedly single. She was married once, divorced, and doesn't bother to go steady. When I asked why, she shrugged and replied flippantly, "You get upset if they don't call. You get upset if they do call a few days later. You get upset if they do call and don't do what you expect. Why bother being upset?"
Good point. Sometimes the truth needs to be crystallized in simple terms.
"Besides," she added, grinning, "there are more men than women here."
Then we prepared to catch my train at 7 am. Why so early, you ask? Rule #1: In Alaska, public transportation is extremely and incomparably limited. How limited? Most buses have only two departures a day: one in the morning and one in the evening. Shuttles are even worse; there is only one departure per day. Which explains why the preferred method of traveling in the state is hitchhiking. In fact, you could get fined several hundred dollars for refusing to pick up a hitchhiker during the winter. Here is the rationale: it gets so bitterly and devastatingly cold during those dark months that the hitchhiker could freeze to death before the next car comes along.
Since it took nearly 8 hours to travel from Anchorage to Denali, it was wise to take the early train. The sky was cloudless and austerely bright. The rail route wove through a gorgeous inlet called Turnagain Arm, offering dramatic views of mountains and scenery, with prolific eagles and whales. Not having an eye for watching wildlife, I saw stunning peaks that struck me mute with awe and silver waters that reflected each peak like a spiral that reached towards both heaven and earth. This stretch of land is legendary for its beauty, placed in the same league as Italy's Amalfi coast.
Then I sought a nap (I was up 36 hours at this point), but was plagued by the same curse: crying infants on the train.
In the afternoon, I finally stumbled into the Visitor Center at Denali National Park, operated on monopoly by the ubiquitous Aramark. I tried to buy a latte and was promptly charged $33.06. No, there was no alcohol, there was nothing special about the latte and I did read the board before buying (it was supposed to be $3.36). Just an incompetent clerk. Given the economic problems of this country, why are people like that still employed?
Plopping myself on a bench and feeling very heavy with fatigue, I waited for the shuttle from the Denali Mountain Morning Hostel to pick me up. The inevitable question: why on earth did "Princess" book a hostel?
Rule # 2: Denali National Park is a paradox and offers two extremities. There is luxurious lodging for $300 plus a night, or hostel lodging for $30 a night (or you can camp inside the park for free, although there are bears and the Park authorities will not be held legally accountable). There is no in-between. For the truly rustic, affluent adventurer, you can opt for an extraordinary log cabin with sumptuous room service, a spacious hot tub, and included personal laundry services. Or you can share a room with four other poor students.
Being jobless without any substantial possession to my name, I prudently chose the hostel. However, I had no idea what to expect, since I always frequented the Marriott or Hilton whenever I traveled for work.
To my pleasant surprise, the hostel was a well-organized lodge with clean amenities, a lovely kitchen, and surrounded by a host of smaller cabins. There was also plenty of young travelers from all over the world to converse with.
On that first night, however, I was a zombie. Once I saw that my bed and sheets were clean (I had six roommates), I collapsed in exhaustion.
At 2 am, someone opened the window and rays of resplendent sunshine fell onto my face. Apparently, the sun had not yet set. During the summer, Alaska boasts nearly 22hours of daylight.
A never-ending day.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Beginnings of an Alaskan Adventure
For most of my young adulthood, friends have stuck me with the affectionate and annoying nickname of "Princess." Part of it was being Asian and delicate and hopelessly uncoordinated, compounded by my love of food, fashion, and gems. However, the connotation was also one of dependency, of limitation, of always needing help from others. So I set out to change that perception. I made plans to visit the mecca of the hardy outdoors: Alaska.
Now my aunt, an accountant, lived in Anchorage and I had a standing offer to tour the rugged landscape of the Great White North with her. Two weeks before my arrival she called. "Sweetie, my quarterly financial deadlines coincide with your visit. Unfortunately, I have to work, but you are welcome to stay with me. I also suggest that you see the state on your own."
So I was forced to brave the wild on my own. Mind you, I had never gone camping before, not even with a group, let alone by myself. I began to question the prudence of my hasty decision to prove everyone wrong. Every time I mentioned the idea to a friend or former colleague, the reactions ranged from prolonged silence to disbelieving laughter to "Are you sure that is a good idea?" Nonetheless, I swallowed my doubts and started mapping my route (Anchorage, Denali National Park, Seward, Homer, etc), booking hostels and convincing myself that I was indeed the strapping adventurous sort.
Of course, I procrastinated on buying supplies until three days before the journey. I went to Campmor, a huge camping goods outlet in Paramus, NJ, where I honestly could not name half the equipment stacked high to the ceiling. In a frenzy, I called my cousin Paul, who had been to Alaska the previous year. I panicked when he didn't answer at first.
"So what do I need? I've been roaming the aisles for forty minutes hoping you'd call."
Chuckle. "Okay, waterproof hiking boots, lightweight rain gear, don't forget the mosquito nets for your face and socks for your feet, bug spray, a bell to fend off bears, a compass. Don't know how to use it? It's simple."
And he proceeded to enumerate directions that I didn't remember as well as a host of other survival items that I apparently forgot. So I went and hunted down the ideal pair of waterproof hiking boots, except that the closest size to my 7.5 was an eight. Not realizing the importance of footwear that fit securely on my feet as I climbed mountains, I bought the size eight boots because the colors were most amenable to my new rain attire. (And it was most reasonably priced.)
Armed with my backpack and necessary items suggested by a bonafide hiking expert, I grew more and more excited about the trip. I also started reading a fascinating account of Chris McCandless, a promising and philosophical university graduate who sold his car and gave away all his money to go into the Alaskan wilderness. It was a riveting book; I began to idolize the nobility of a young man to dispense with materialism and to live off the earth.
Into the Wild. What a wonderful way to find oneself.
It wasn't until my plane rose from the tarmac that I realized he died in Denali National Park.
Now my aunt, an accountant, lived in Anchorage and I had a standing offer to tour the rugged landscape of the Great White North with her. Two weeks before my arrival she called. "Sweetie, my quarterly financial deadlines coincide with your visit. Unfortunately, I have to work, but you are welcome to stay with me. I also suggest that you see the state on your own."
So I was forced to brave the wild on my own. Mind you, I had never gone camping before, not even with a group, let alone by myself. I began to question the prudence of my hasty decision to prove everyone wrong. Every time I mentioned the idea to a friend or former colleague, the reactions ranged from prolonged silence to disbelieving laughter to "Are you sure that is a good idea?" Nonetheless, I swallowed my doubts and started mapping my route (Anchorage, Denali National Park, Seward, Homer, etc), booking hostels and convincing myself that I was indeed the strapping adventurous sort.
Of course, I procrastinated on buying supplies until three days before the journey. I went to Campmor, a huge camping goods outlet in Paramus, NJ, where I honestly could not name half the equipment stacked high to the ceiling. In a frenzy, I called my cousin Paul, who had been to Alaska the previous year. I panicked when he didn't answer at first.
"So what do I need? I've been roaming the aisles for forty minutes hoping you'd call."
Chuckle. "Okay, waterproof hiking boots, lightweight rain gear, don't forget the mosquito nets for your face and socks for your feet, bug spray, a bell to fend off bears, a compass. Don't know how to use it? It's simple."
And he proceeded to enumerate directions that I didn't remember as well as a host of other survival items that I apparently forgot. So I went and hunted down the ideal pair of waterproof hiking boots, except that the closest size to my 7.5 was an eight. Not realizing the importance of footwear that fit securely on my feet as I climbed mountains, I bought the size eight boots because the colors were most amenable to my new rain attire. (And it was most reasonably priced.)
Armed with my backpack and necessary items suggested by a bonafide hiking expert, I grew more and more excited about the trip. I also started reading a fascinating account of Chris McCandless, a promising and philosophical university graduate who sold his car and gave away all his money to go into the Alaskan wilderness. It was a riveting book; I began to idolize the nobility of a young man to dispense with materialism and to live off the earth.
Into the Wild. What a wonderful way to find oneself.
It wasn't until my plane rose from the tarmac that I realized he died in Denali National Park.
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